


Follow the Sun

by usernicole



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Cinderella AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-09 22:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usernicole/pseuds/usernicole
Summary: After ten years living under his abusive uncle's roof, Keith sees his opportunity for escape in a kingdom-wide tournament held by the royal family. Sure, the prize includes a chance to court the prince, but Keith's not too worried about that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what the fuck is UP my dudes
> 
> the semester is over and i'm on a lot of cold medicine. i crave validation with my writing and i've been writing this fic for years now. i hope there are still people who care about this shitshow of a series.
> 
> i started this well before the series ended and have not seen season 8. this was also written before kosmo existed and, while i love him, i refused to replace dipshit. sorry
> 
> ive got another chapter of this written and i plan on continuing it but i'm making no fucking promises as to when that's going to happen. no one has beta'd this and i dont think that's gonna change. i'm high as fuck yo!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> fic title is from one direction as always

Keith doesn’t usually dream.

Most nights, his head hits the pillow and he’s out. This is one of the only parts of his day that he actively looks forward to. Throughout the day he longs for that sweet oblivion, those precious few hours of peace.

On this particular night, however, he dreams. There’s no storyline to his dream, no ongoing narrative. He doesn’t dream of anything solid or clear. He observes blurry shapes, bright colors, and soothing sounds. In the dream, Keith is warm, and there’s a light feeling in his chest that is unlike anything Keith’s ever felt. Or, at least, unlike anything Keith has felt for many years. He thinks that maybe the feeling is love, or something like it. It’s familiar, but faded. It’s like rereading a book you loved as a kid, or hearing a favorite song in an unexpected place.

In the dream, a hand reaches out, and Keith reaches back. Their palms clasp together.

He’s awakened by a swift kick to the stomach.

Keith sits up, startled. Haxus is glaring down at him, leg pulled back and ready to land a second kick. Keith glares right back and shoves at Haxus’ knee. 

“What the fuck?” Keith snaps, before turning to gather up his things. He’d slept on the floor of the kitchen again, curled up as close as he dared to the fire with his jacket bunched under his head. He quickly wraps the jacket around the sheathed knife hidden under it and pulls the whole bundle to his chest.

Haxus’ lip curls as he straightens, tugging at the bottom of his butler’s vest. “What have I told you about sleeping out in the open?” he asks. “What if the Master had seen you?”

Keith rolls his eyes and rises to his knees stiffly. “I couldn’t care less what he sees,” he mutters. Standing up is an experience. Keith is fairly sure nineteen is too young to be achy in the mornings.

“It would do you well not to forget who feeds and houses you, boy,” Haxus snarls. He kicks at Keith again, and Keith jumps out of the way. It’s getting harder and harder for him to restrain himself and stop from fighting back, but he knows that doing anything of the sort would just land him in even more shit. Keith has been living at his great uncle’s manor for almost ten years. He knows what his job is. He turns his back and leaves the kitchen, ignoring Haxus as he calls after him.

Every day, Keith thinks about leaving, escaping. He doesn’t have much to take. If he really wanted, he could fit all of his possessions in the pockets of his jacket and just...walk away. Leave out the door and down the road, go wherever he wants. But in comparison to the rest of him, that part is small, and tired. It’s been years now, years of beatings and hard, back-breaking work, years of Sendak looming over him, big and strong and terrifying, telling him every day that he’ll never be anything better, will never amount to anything. He has no education, no money, no family. This house is all he has and all he’s ever known. He’d already lost everything once, he’s not sure he can do it again.

Haxus will take care of Sendak’s breakfast, which means it’s Keith’s job to wake the man up. It’s Keith’s most hated job, so he takes his time meandering through the many hallways of the manor, throwing open curtains and clearing any clutter. 

It’s been so long, and yet the walk to Sendak’s quarters never fails to inspire a creeping sense of dread. It’s like with every step, Keith can feel himself shrinking slowly down to who he had been ten years ago, small and stubborn and scared. Even the cheerful sunlight shining through the house’s large windows feels heavy and oppressive the closer he gets to Sendak’s room. Keith feels over-exposed.

Compared to the bright hallway, the darkness of Sendak’s room is disorienting. Keith knocks as he enters, eager to get this over with. He makes a beeline for the wide windows across the room, reaching for the heavy curtains. 

“It’s time to get up, sir,” he says tersely, pulling open the curtain and letting light fill the room. Like the rest of the house, it’s lavishly decorated, everything draped in rich purples and reds. Keith has never liked Sendak’s taste. The dark colors and large, extravagant furniture have always made him feel as though the walls were closing in on him. It’s suffocating.

Unbidden, thoughts of his dream of wide open spaces and the room to breathe freely float through Keith’s head.  Keith frowns, shaking his head to send the images away.. 

He turns away from the window, standing stiffly and waiting to be addressed. Sendak is a large mass in the low light, a shadow between the curtains of his four poster bed. He shifts, and Keith tenses. 

There’s another moment, and the rustling of blankets. In the sliver of space between the bed curtains, the meager sunlight falls onto a glimmer of gold, Sendak’s false eye. The sight of it freezes Keith’s blood, paralyzing him, and then Sendak says, “Well, what are you waiting for?” 

Keith flinches, moving towards Sendak’s wardrobe. 

He doesn’t say anything as he gathers Sendak’s dressing robe and brings it to him, only holding it out for Sendak to slip his arms through. Neither of them are the type to appreciate small talk, and in Keith’s experience, the less he says to Sendak the better. He bustles about, going through the motions of Sendak’s daily routine. It’s muscle memory at this point. Stuff like this stopped being embarrassing years ago.

Once Sendak is up and dressed, with nothing out of place, Keith steps back, placing his arms behind his back. 

Keith shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uneasy. He always feels so submissive in the presence of Sendak. He hates it, absolutely, and that burning rage simmers under his skin. It’s as though someone takes over him when he’s around his great uncle, and the real Keith is trapped in his own body, screaming to be let out. 

He waits while Sendak examines himself in the mirror, turning back and forth to admire his waistcoat and his shiny watch chain. Keith eyes his own too-short pants and tattered jacket in the mirror. His clothes are faded, the fabric thin and shabby. He has some soot streaked across his cheek, and he swipes at his face quickly, hoping Sendak didn’t notice.

Sendak turns around, and his self satisfied look falls at the sight of Keith. Keith stiffens, pushing his shoulders back out of habit. He’s been punished so many times for bad posture that he can feel the phantom pain of a switch against his back.

Sendak examines him for a moment, and Keith feels dread curl in his stomach. Then, Sendak moves quickly forward, as though to hit him.

Keith flinches, turning his face away and shutting his eyes tightly.

Sendak straightens--smug and satisfied once again--and moves passed Keith towards the bedroom door. “You are dismissed,” he says, over one shoulder. “Haxus will have a list of things for you to do.”

Keith nods.  After Sendak leaves, he waits until he can no longer hear footsteps before opening his eyes. 

His entire life has been an exercise in humiliation. He can’t believe he flinched so easily.=,  _ cowering  _ like a weakling. He hates himself and he hates Sendak and he hates this house. Suddenly, being indoors is overwhelming. He can’t stand the sight of the velvet curtains, the marble flooring, the gilded adornments. Keith turns on one heel and runs, out of the room and down the stairs until he’s back in the kitchen, leaving out of the servant’s door.

As soon as Keith exits the house, he’s set upon by a tiny ball of energy and fur, bouncing and yapping at his feet. Keith closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath, feeling the knot in his chest unravel. He opens his eyes against the sunlight.

“Hey Dip,” Keith says, crouching to greet the tiny dog still hopping around his boots. Dipshit, or “Dip”, wasn’t  _ meant _ to be Keith’s dog. A few years ago, nobels all around the country began carrying small dogs around like accessories. A fad. And because Sendak was a fool devoted to impressing other nobles, Haxus arrived soon after with a fancy carrier in one hand and Dipshit in another.

After about a week of Dipshit’s endless yapping, constant accidents, and reckless destruction of Sendak’s property, Sendak had had enough of the long-haired chihuahua and ordered Haxus to throw the dog out. That’s how Keith came to know him. All things considered, Keith had thought Dip was pretty useless. He had never seen the point of owning a dog so small. He’d never really seen the point of owning a dog at  _ all _ . Dipshit is tiny, with beady little eyes so far apart that they are practically looking in different directions. He smells, and he has an underbite so prominent that half of the scraps Keith manages to sneak him fall right out of his mouth. Dipshit barks all the time, and bites everyone who isn’t Keith. But Dip knows no other home, has no place to go. Keith can relate to that.

“Hey, buddy,” Keith says, lifting his chin up and away from the frantically licking dog. “Hey, Dip. How you doing?” The dog is practically vibrating with excitement, and also probably cold. Keith thinks guiltily of his warm spot by the fire and scoops him up, buttoning him into his jacket. Dip peaks out the front, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and Keith stands to go about his day.

The first thing Keith does is feed the animals. He shovels hay and sprinkles chicken feed and he hauls slop. If he’s being honest, Keith doesn’t mind the work. He doesn’t care if he gets his hands dirty, and the animals have yet to hurl insults and orders at him. So as far as Keith is concerned, they’re better company than anyone else on the property. In fact, Keith thinks most days the faces of the animals are the friendliest he sees. 

Keith’s life hasn’t always been this way. He wasn’t always a glorified servant. He had a family once. It wasn’t a big family. He had no brothers or sisters, but he had a mom and he had a dad. He was taken care of. 

His mom had been tall and strong. She was a general in the Queen’s army and the country’s best fighter. She’d led countless battles to victory, but at home she was loving. Not in the way other mothers are, maybe. She was more likely to ruffle Keith’s hair, or offer to train him to sword fight  than hug him or kiss his cheeks. That kind of affection was usually given by his dad. 

Keith’s dad had been a mechanic, and as a result he was home with Keith a lot more. Keith’s dad had been the one to read him stories and tuck him in at night. During the day, Keith would follow his dad to his shop and they would spend the whole day together. They did everything together. Keith was happy. 

But, like most good things in Keith’s life do, all of it came to an end. The war began when Keith was nine years old, and lasted long after. Keith’s mom was on the front lines, beating away their country’s would-be conquerors. Winter came, and her letters became shorter and came further apart. Keith’s dad became more withdrawn, less likely to give out hugs and silly stories. It’s at that time that Keith learned what it was like to be alone. 

The letters stopped coming, and Keith’s dad lost himself in his worry. He wrote letters and paced at all hours of the night. He was frantic for any news of the war. Keith did his best to take care of him, cooking dinner and trying to make him sleep, but Keith’s dad was already gone. His mind and heart were out on the front lines with his wife. And it sounds bad--Keith  _ knows _ it sounds bad--but when that final letter came it had almost been a relief. They finally had an answer, Keith’s dad could stop worrying.

But the letter wasn’t good news. It wasn’t his mother’s neat handwriting on the paper clenched in his dad’s hands. The letter told of injury, and then infection, limited resources, and a woman too stubborn to leave her squadron. With every letter of every word Keith’s father read, he lost the battle against the pain in his heart, against the aching sensation that had been pulling him in her direction for months now. 

The next day, Keith’s father packed a bag and made plans to head north, to the war and to his wife. With tears in his eyes he left Keith with instructions, told him where to go and what to do. He’d handed Keith a strip of paper with an address and a name. “Go to Sendak,” he’d said. “He is your mom’s uncle. He will take care of you.”

Keith had nodded, mouth twisting with the effort to fight back tears. His dad placed his big hand on top of Keith’s head. “You need to stay strong,” he’d said. “Stay strong for us. You’re tough, like your mom. You’ll be okay. We’ll be back soon.”

And with that, he’d left, down the road with a pack bouncing against his back. Keith had watched him until he could no longer be seen, and his dad had never looked back. 

Keith had initially tried to stay at their farmhouse. He was a stubborn kid, and he thought he could take care of himself. But debt collectors came, and food was harder to come by than a ten year old could ever anticipate. Soon enough he’d gone crawling to his great uncle, scared and alone.

He tries not to dwell on it, because remembering makes him either angry or depressed, and he fucking hates that it effects him so much even after all of these years. There are days where Keith resents his parents, for being so great only to leave him, for giving him a taste of true family only to snatch it away. He’d been at Sendak’s a year when the package came, with two letters and a knife wrapped in gauze. But most days, Keith is too tired to resent them for it. There are worse things to do to a kid than leave them. Keith’s dad had told him to stay strong, but, in Keith’s experience, life didn’t usually give you any other option.

As the sun rises higher in the sky, Dip gets hot bundled up in Keith’s jacket. He starts to wiggle, so Keith frees him, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground. 

Dip barks once, then twice. He dances around Keith’s feet, nearly tripping him as they go to milk the cow. Keith rolls his eyes, stepping carefully to avoid Dip’s tiny paws.

There’s something slightly different about his mood today. He feels lighter, somehow. Antsy, like he’s waiting for something to happen but he doesn’t know what. He thinks maybe it was the weird dream he had, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. Apprehensive, maybe? Irritated, more likely. He hasn’t thought about his parents this much in a long while. He doesn’t like it.

Just before he enters the barn, there’s a call from the house. Keith flinches.

“Boy!” Haxus calls, and Keith doesn’t have to turn to know Haxus has an ugly sneer twisting his face. Maybe it’s good news, then.

“What?” Keith calls, turning around and crossing his arms. Dip sits as his ankles, growling lowly at Haxus.

Even as far away as he is, Keith can see Haxus’ full body shiver of rage at the lack of respect in Keith’s tone. Keith smirks.

“You are to go into town at once!” Haxus says, apparently willing to forgive Keith’s rudeness. “At  _ once _ , I say!”

Keith rolls his eyes, though an undeniable feeling of excitement builds in his chest. Any excuse to leave the grounds is worth it. If Keith really plans accordingly, he can be gone the entire day into the evening. “For what?” he calls back.

“The Master has a shipment arriving that must be retrieved,” Haxus says, lifting his pointy nose in the air.

Keith makes a point of acting like going into town to pick up Sendak’s newest ornamental vase or exotic spices is the worst thing in the world. “Fine,” he says. “I  _ guess _ .”

He sees Haxus bristle again, but doesn’t sit around for Haxus to start a lecture. Keith turns on one heel and continues into the barn, Dip at his heels. Once inside, he begins to pick up the pace, anticipation moving him faster towards the misshapen pile of fabric towards the back of the building. 

The hoverbike, when revealed in a flourish, is duller than he remembers, the eggplant-purple paint dusky and dark in the dim light of the barn. Living where he does, he’s grown used to the idea that nothing he has is truly his. The few possessions he’s had other than his knife have been taken or broken. But, miraculously, he’s managed to keep the bike.

He’d sold it as a practicality. To Sendak, it’s a quick, cheap way for Keith to get around and do his bidding. It had been one of the only things left of Keith’s dad, rusting for years at their little abandoned house until Keith had found it and claimed it for his own. It’s an old model, but through years of work and half-remembered advice Keith has managed to keep it running. To Keith, it’s the closest thing he has to freedom. No one touches it, other than him. It takes him away from here.

He hums thoughtfully, running a hand over the smooth leather seat. It’s been a while since he’s been to town, and he’s mildly worried that it won’t run as well from disuse. Keith reaches over, turning the key and feeling the bike rumble to life beneath him. At his feet, Dip lets out a sad little whine.

“No,” Keith says, sternly.

Another whine.

“Not today, buddy,” Keith says. “I think I’m going to be making a few stops.”

A bark, this time.

Keith sighs, leaning back so the bike can lift easily off of the ground, hovering somewhere around his shins. He looks down at Dip, sitting next to Keith’s feet and giving a face so pitiful Keith can’t help but feel his resolve wavering.

He groans, pushing away from the bike and towards the wall, where he’s left a backpack hanging on a hook. Dip’s reaction is immediate, his tongue lolling out happily and his tiny underbite on full display.

“You’d better behave this time,” Keith says, ducking down to let Dip hop inside of the bag, zipping it until only his head is poking out. “No biting anyone, or next time you’re staying with Haxus.”

He swings the bag onto his back, careful not to jostle it too much, and starts walking the bike out of the barn. Once he’s received the list of items he’s meant to pick up from Haxus (a bunch of bullshit, just as Keith’s suspected), he’s itching to be gone already. The gentle rumble of the bike is echoed inside of him, his fingers twisting on the handlebars as Haxus tells him six different ways that he is “ _ to be back at once. You hear me, boy? At  _ once!”

The need to leave is almost a physical ache, excitement speeding up his heart and pulling a smile, unwilling, to his lips. And when it finally happens, when he manages to escape Haxus’ lecture and pull out onto the dirt road leading to town, he leaves a cloud of dust in his wake. 

Keith flies down the open road, pushing the bike to full speed far too quickly. He hears Dip bark once, happily, before the sound is stolen away by the wind. Keith loves this. Keith has always loved this, the wind whipping his hair against his face, the sting of it across his nose and cheeks. When he’d been very young, he’d wanted to be a pilot. Now, almost twenty and with no formal schooling or official training, this is the closest he’s going to get. 

A shadow runs over him, large and imposing, and Keith lifts his head to see a shuttle flying through the sky, cutting the blue in half. He can tell by the coloring that it’s military grade, the best of the best, and his stupid heart skips in his chest at the thought of flying it. 

Keith frowns slightly, disappointed in his own useless thoughts. There’s something about this day that has him feeling...whimsical. And dumb. He ducks forward over his handlebars, revving the engine, and pretends he’s racing the ship above him, speeding away from it and his own ridiculous dreams. 

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly misses his turn, cursing and twisting harshly at the handlebars, dirt flying as his hoverbike skids across it. He manages to make the turn, grinning smugly, and drives straight into a dark forest.

This isn’t an official stop, neither Haxus-approved nor Haxus-aware, but Keith’s an expert at wasting Haxus’ precious time, and he’s starting to wonder if Pidge has forgotten he exists.

He reaches the Holt’s house faster than what’s probably safe, weaving through the trees and out into the clearing that serves as their land. The house is just as bizarre as he remembers it, a typical cottage with various added floors and offshoots. Vines climb up the walls, tangled in what looks like countless technological enhancements. Since he’s last been here, some kind of metal tube has been built onto the roof, topped with a comically large satellite dish. 

When Keith skids to a stop, several chickens scatter from beneath the bike’s thrusters, and Keith curses. Dip starts barking almost as soon as Keith turns off the engine, not waiting for the bike to settle on the ground before he starts wriggling in Keith’s bag, eager to get out and explore.

Keith can hear the faint sound of clanging metal from inside of the house, loud in the otherwise peaceful forest around him. He wrings his hands after dismounting the bike, still uncomfortable even after all of these years with imposing on his friend’s family. Luckily, he doesn’t have to go up to the house himself, because soon enough the banging grows louder, and a hatch opens in the metal tube.

“Is that  _ Keith? _ ” Pidge yells, sticking her head out of the hatch and grinning down at him. “Keith  _ Kogane?” _

“The one and only,” Keith says, crossing his arms and looking up at her. She has grease smeared on her cheeks, and her glasses are askew, and it’s so good to see her. 

“I’d recognize the sound of that heap of junk anywhere,” she says, nodding to Keith’s bike. “You still drive that thing? Why?”

Keith shrugs. “Gets me where I’m going,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, fuck,” Pidge says, like she only just remembered she had been working on something. “Give me a second.” 

She disappears and the hatch closes. The banging starts anew, joined by what sounds like an electric saw and a xylophone. After a moment, it stops, only to be followed by a loud noise that has Keith ducking and Dip barking wildly. Smoke starts leaking from the seams of the tube.

“Uh, Pidge?” Keith calls nervously. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, walking out the front door of the house. “Just a...you know how it is.” She waves her hand vaguely. “But anyway! Keith! I thought you died!”

“I couldn’t get a way for a while,” Keith says. “Sorry.”

Pidge grimaces like she always does when Keith talks about where he lives. “Sure,” she says. “But whatever, it’s in the past. What brings you here? Did you need parts again? How’s the old trash heap running?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “It’s  _ fine _ . I don’t get what your problem is.”

“You’re like an old man,” Pidge says. “You keep using the same old stuff because it ‘still works’ even though your life would be way better if you just bothered to upgrade. You’re turning into my dad.”

Keith huffs. “Whatever,” he says. “No, I don’t need parts, because it  _ runs fine _ . Can’t a guy just come visit his friend every once in a while?”

Pidge laughs, moving forward to wrap her arms around Keith in a hug. “Aww, Keith! I knew you cared! You know you can visit any time you want--” She freezes, twisting to look around Keith. “Wait, did you bring your  _ dog _ ? I take it back, you’re no longer welcome. Take it away.”

Keith smiles, “What? You like dogs!”

“I like  _ dogs _ ,” Pidge says, pulling away. “That’s not a dog. That’s evil.”

Keith shrugs. “So he bit Matt one or ten times--”

“And me!” Pidge says. “More importantly, he bit  _ me--” _

“Just a little,” Keith says. He pushes his hands into his pockets. They go silent, and Keith feels a tiny twist of nervousness build in him. He’s known Pidge and her family for years now, but he still finds himself uncomfortable in their presence sometimes, unused to maintaining conversation or being social. He knows Pidge doesn’t mind how awkward he is, but he can’t really help it.

“So, uh,” he starts, coughing into a fist. “I actually...have to go do some shit in town for Haxus so--”

“Oh, good!” Pidge says excitedly. “I need to go into town too. You can take me.” 

Keith laughs. “Oh, really?” he says. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh shut up,” Pidge says, moving away and back towards the house. “You know your lonely ass craves my company.” She disappears momentarily into the house and emerges wearing a hoodie and a ridiculous pair of goggles, pocketing her wallet. “We can go bother Matt at his shop.”

Keith rolls his eyes. Pidge’s older brother had recently opened a shop in town to peddle his various inventions and other oddities. From what Keith had been told, his wares were already in high demand, though he doubts Matt would turn away his beloved little sister.  “I’m sold,” he says, and they move together towards the bike. “You know this means you’re going to have to carry Dipshit’s bag, right?”

Pidge groans.

  
  
  
  


Keith loves and hates going into town.

He loves it because it’s not home, and when he’s walking around the marketplace it’s nice to know that no one knows who he is. He can move freely and know no one will really bother him because they’re all too busy with their own lives. He likes the anonymity and the freedom of movement. He’s used to being unknown, and the people in town at least don’t bother him with it.

He hates going into town because it’s fucking crowded.

The two of them are pretty much trapped in the town square, people on all sides pushing and pulling and standing still. He’s got Dipshit on his back and several bags on his arms, and he’s trying to look at the list Haxus gave him to see if he’s missed anything, but he can’t really move his arms in the small space. Pidge is somewhere to the left of him, or behind him. She’s easy to lose in the sea of people, and he’s starting to wonder if he should put her on a leash. They’re trying to get to Matt’s shop, but she keeps getting distracted by food carts and street performers and booths that sell what looks like metal twisted into odd shapes.

“Pidge!” Keith calls, turning in a circle and frowning. “I swear to god I will leave without you.”

Dip keeps growling and snapping at any person who comes close, so Keith has to be extra careful where he steps, but he manages to find Pidge eventually. She’s standing on the edge of the large fountain at the center of the square, attempting to see over the crowd.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Keith asks. 

She places her hands on Keith’s shoulders and stands on her tiptoes, using Keith for balance. “There’s something happening!” she says, excited. She points over Keith’s shoulder and, sure enough, there is a podium being set up. People are bustling around, draping everything in the blue and gold colors of the royal family. 

“Okay?” Keith turns around, letting Pidge lean on him. “What is it?”

“It looks like a royal announcement,” Pidge says. 

Now that Keith is paying attention, the crowd around them is buzzing, everyone talking excitedly amongst themselves, pointing at the podium. It’s an uncomfortable amount of people.

“Do we need to stay for it?” he asks. 

“Yes!” Pidge says. “I never get to see any of this stuff, living out in the middle of nowhere. What do you think it is? Do you think it’s a war?”

Keith fidgets uncomfortably, reminding himself that the war of his childhood is over, and that Pidge is too young to remember how awful it had been. “I don’t think so,” he says, probably too soft for her to hear over the crowd. “I hope not.”

She squeezes his shoulders, leaning over his head. “Shhh!” she says. “It’s starting!”

Sure enough, there’s an explosion of noise as trumpets blare, and a heavyset man in an official-looking uniform steps up to the podium. He actually looks to be around Keith’s age, and nervous as fuck.

“Uh,” he starts, and the microphone explodes with feedback, startling him backwards. There’s a long silence, and he steps back up, awkwardly readjusting the tassels on his shoulders. “Right. Sorry about that. How are you guys?”

He’s met with silence.

“Right,” the man repeats. He clears his throat, pulling out a rolled scroll of paper and unfurling it. “Well, I’m Hunk, and I’m head advisor to his royal highness, Prince Lance--”

“Ugh,” Pidge groans in Keith’s ear. “The prince is probably just getting married or something.”

“--and I’m here to make an official announcement. So. Hear ye, hear ye, I guess. It is my duty to bring to the attention of the public that the palace will be holding a tournament--”

“Oh!” Pidge says, standing up on her toes and pushing into Keith’s shoulders. Keith can hear Dip growling in warning. “A tournament! That’s sort of exciting.”

“For who?” Keith asks. “It’s not like we’re invited.”

“--on behalf of his Highness, the royal Prince Lance, in an attempt of many…” Hunk pauses, sighing. “Many, many,  _ many _ exhaustive attempts of her Majesty the Queen to find a him a suitor.”

Pidge slaps Keith gently upside the head, and he turns to glare at her. “See?” she says. “What’d I tell you? They’re marrying him off.”

“ _ Who cares? _ ” Keith says, ducking when she moves to pull his hair. 

“The tournament will begin, henceforth, in one week,” Hunk continues, attempting to flatten the curling paper in his hands, “and will continue for three days. The tournament will include tasks of strength and resilience, culminating, of course in a royal ball.”

Keith rolls his eyes, nose wrinkling, before looking up and back at Pidge, who shrugs. 

“The winner of the tournament will be the guest of honor and receive a special place at the Prince’s side when attending the gala, and be given the opportunity--if they so wish--to...court the Prince.” The advisor shook his head in disappointment. “Including an all-expenses paid trip--with the Prince, of course--off-planet in one of the palace’s finest luxury shuttles.”

Keith’s eyes widen slightly.

Up on the podium, Hunk lets the scroll curl back in on itself. “Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “‘ _ Why should I care? I’m not noble. I won’t get to participate in this amazing tournament or attend fancy parties and eat the finest foods in the kingdom.’ _ BUT!” He points the scroll out at the crowd, gesturing dramatically. “That’s where you are  _ wrong _ , my friends!”

The royal guard who had been in charge of trumpeting the announcement coughs weakly into his fist, and Hunk looks over at him sheepishly before continuing. “This is because, by royal decree of the Prince himself, the tournament and all related festivities will be open to the entire kingdom!”

This is met with raucous cheering from the audience, including Pidge, who is jostling Keith’s shoulders back and forth with her hands. 

“Any person, of any gender or class status, may try their hands at the tournament, or simply attend if they so choose--”

Hunk goes on, but Keith has stopped paying attention.  _ A ride off-planet. _

Keith has had his eyes turned towards the stars for as long as he can remember. He’s long since given up on that dream but maybe, if given the chance--

He thinks of the hand in his dream, reaching out for him to take it. He thinks:  _ opportunity _ .

There’s a harsh tug at his hair, and Keith snaps out of his daze.

“Pay attention!” Pidge hisses.

Hunk is becoming significantly harder to hear as the crowd’s excited chattering raises in volume, but he does his best. “Now!” he calls. “For those interested in participating in the tournament, please report to the castle bright and early in a week’s time. Bring protective clothing and your preferred method of transportation. All will be explained on that day. If you don’t have armor, we will have limited supply of--”

Keith tunes him out, whipping around to look at Pidge. She’s grinning widely, bouncing on her toes. 

“Transportation?” she asks. “What do you think it is?”

“It’s a race,” Keith says firmly. “It has to be. And I’m going to win it.”

Pidge’s eyes widen. “What?” she asks. “You want to date the prince?”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “ _ No _ ,” he says. “Of course not! But I’m going to win that trip off-planet. Just wait.”

“The trip off-planet with the  _ prince _ ,” Pidge says, smirking. 

Keith waves her off. “Whatever. It has to be a race. They’re going to want to eliminate a bunch of people at once. All I need to do is give my bike a bit of a tune-up and--”

Pidge hops down from the fountain, putting her hands on her hips. “Nope, no, nuh-uh,” she says. “I’m not letting you anywhere near that inevitable trainwreck of a race without adding at least five upgrades to that piece of junk.”

The crowd begins to slowly disperse as Hunk finishes his speech. Everyone around them is gushing about the  _ prince _ and  _ ballgowns  _ and the  _ palace _ . The enthusiasm is infectious, and there’s an almost physical excitement in the air while Keith and Pidge wait for the crowd to thin and a path to clear.

“My bike can outrun anything anyone else has to offer,” Keith says. “Including any asshole nobles.”

“Right,” Pidge says. “You do realize…”

Keith kneels to let a wriggling Dip out of his backpack. The dog drops to the ground and immediately begins to growl at everyone around them. “Realize what?” Keith asks. He’s already thinking of the parts he’ll need to buy, and when he’ll be able to find the time to work on the hoverbike. If he waits until Sendak’s asleep, he can use the barn. He may even be able to sneak away for a test drive. Keith’s good, but he can always use the practice. 

“Keith,” Pidge says. “ _ Everyone’s  _ going to be there.  _ All of the nobles _ \--” she raises her eyebrows at him, “--are going to be there.”

Keith freezes, then slowly rises back to his feet.  His heart sinks. Of course, he thinks. Of course Sendak will be there. Haxus too, probably. They never miss fancy palace events. He clenches his fists around the bags in his hands, and all of the sudden he feels so, so tired. “You’re right,” he says. “I can’t believe I...of course Sendak’s gonna go. I can’t participate in the tournament. It was a stu--”

“No, Keith,” Pidge interrupts, stepping up and placing one hand on Keith’s arm. “You heard what that guy said.  _ Anyone _ in the kingdom may participate. Sendak can’t go against the order of the prince.” She looks up at him with big, brown eyes. He often forgets that she’s a lot younger than him, but he can see it now, in the way her brow furrows and how she’s pursing her lips, obviously thinking furiously.

“Pidge,” Keith says, resigned. “If he sees me there--”

“We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t see you then,” she says stubbornly. “Or...doesn’t recognize you?” Pidge places her hand on her chin thoughtfully.

“What?” Keith says, eyebrows raising. “You want me to wear a mask or something?”

He means it sarcastically, but Pidge’s eyes light up all the same. She hums. “Maybe,” she says, and the grin that spreads slowly across her face is a bit worrying, but Keith feels his previous excitement make a triumphant return, building within him. “But first, we have to go see Matt.”

And with that, she grabs ahold of his wrist and proceeds to drag him through the town square with Dip nipping at their heels. 

***

One of the first things you should know about Prince Leandro Miguel Santiago Raúl “Lance” Espinosa McClain is that he’s a romantic, and he refuses to be ashamed of that fact.

Because if he’s anything else, it’s definitely lucky. He was born the youngest child in a family of royals. His much older siblings have proven themselves quite capable of helping their mother manage the kingdom, so while he isn’t entirely free of responsibility, he is able to live a relatively easy life. He can afford the odd romantic daydream, to wish on stars and pray for someone to sweep him away.

He’d had a dream the night before, in his deepest sleep. He’d been bathed in pink light, wading through clouds. He’d reached out his hand. He doesn’t know what that means.

But anyway, the downside of all of this is that, as the fourth child, there isn’t really protocol for what to do with him. His siblings are all happily (and advantageously) married. His father had passed away many years before, but his mother remains in good health. Lance is just...there. And it’s apparently time to do something about that.

“So!” Hunk says cheerfully, holding up two swatches of blue cloth. “What do you think? The royal seamstress is getting kind of desperate for opinion here, man. It’s like, a week before the ball and you have nothing to wear.”

“Good,” Lance says darkly. He’s sprawled tragically across one of the palace’s many, many chaise lounges, in full view of everyone. It’s one of his favorite rooms in the building, due to its large windows overlooking the town below. In his current all-black ensemble, the cheery sunlight coming through them is a little intense, but he refuses to move. He wants the entire kingdom to see for themselves how miserable he is. 

Hunk ignores him. “I, personally, think you should go with the lighter periwinkle,” he says. “I think it will make your eyes brighter, and the gold tassels--because you  _ know  _ there will be gold tassels--will look less...shiny.” He makes a face. “Though, the royal blue is nice, too.”

He drapes the fabric across both sides of Lance’s chest, then steps back to inspect them. 

“Make it black,” Lance says, artfully placing one arm over his eyes. “For I will be attending a funeral.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hunk says. “It’s not a good look.”

Lance glares up at him. “Everything I wear is a good look,” he huffs, sitting up. The fabric falls off of him and floats sadly to the floor. “Did you make the announcement?”

“Yup,” Hunk says. “And can I just say, the people in town are  _ thrilled _ . I think you made everyone’s year with this.”

Lance feels a smile tugging at his lips, against his will. “Good,” he says. “At least they’ll be having a good time.”

“Aw, come on,” Hunk says, sitting down and placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Aren’t you a little bit excited? The whole kingdom is going to come out in celebration of love and...and  _ you! _ Three whole days of Lance.”

“It’s not a...a  _ celebration _ of me,” Lance says. “I’m a  _ prize. _ ”

“You know nothing is guaranteed. It’s just a way to let you know who’s interested. You don’t think it’s even a little romantic? People coming from far and wide to meet you, rich or poor.”

“Yeah,” Lance scoffs. “Real romantic. You know everyone will come so they can meet the  _ prince,  _ right? Not me. Everyone there will either be a noble trying to arrange an advantageous marriage, or a commoner hoping to marry into a noble family. There’s  _ nothing  _ romantic about this.”

Hunk frowns, rubbing Lance’s back. “At least your mom is allowing commoners to take part,” he says hopefully. after a moment of thought. “There’s going to be a lot of people there. Maybe...even if they don't take part in the tournament, you’ll meet someone!”

“That’s the thing, though,” Lance says. He’s tried to explain this to Hunk before, and every time he feels like he’s being foolish. “I don’t want to...to  _ scramble _ to meet someone. My mom is giving me  _ days _ to choose the person I’m supposed to be spending the rest of my life with!” He flails his arms out, exasperated, before dropping his head into his hands. “It’s not supposed to  _ be  _ like that. Stuff like that, like love, that’s just supposed to happen.”

Hunk sighs, tipping until he can rest his head atop Lance’s. “I know, buddy,” he says sadly. “I know this isn’t what you want but...you know real life isn’t quite that ideal? Your mom just wants you to be happy, like your siblings. The fact that she’s not arranging everything is evidence enough of that, or you’d have been engaged to  _ Lotor _ years ago.”

Lance drops his hands, making a face. “Ugh,” he says. “Speaking of: he’s coming.”

Hunk groans, sitting up and dropping his head back. “Of  _ course _ he is.”

“He’s such an ass,” Lance says. “And he’s going to pull out all the stops to win. Oh god, I’m going to have to go on a romantic shuttle trip with  _ Lotor--" _

“You don’t know that!” Hunk says. “There’s going to be a lot of people in the tournament. Maybe--"

Lance levels Hunk with an unimpressed glare. Hunk slumps.

“Allura is also participating?” Hunk says hopefully.

“Really?” Lance says, perking up. “Wow...why? Wait, don’t answer that.” Lance places his hand on his chin thoughtfully. “Like, that ship has  _ definitely  _ sailed, but she’s likely the only one to give Lotor a run for his money. And I mean...I wouldn't be opposed...”

“Honestly?” Hunk says. “I think her dad is making her do it. Or Coran. In the spirit of the alliance, or something.”

Lance sighs. “You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, buddy,” he says. 

“Hey, I’m your advisor. It isn’t my job to butter you up, it’s to advise.” Hunk pats him on the back twice, hard enough to jostle him. “And my advice right now? Just let it happen. You never know, maybe this will all work out. Now, can we  _ please _ go to the royal seamstress before she has a nervous breakdown?”

Lance sighs, looking up and out the window. He eyes the town below, full of people, and wishes desperately for a miracle. After a moment, he stands, stretching his hands over his head.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Lance says. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

If there’s one thing you should know about Keith Kogane, it’s that he’s the unluckiest bastard that’s ever been born.

He’d returned back to Sendak’s manor in unusually high spirits. Not even the sight of Haxus’ pinched, snooty face had been enough to spoil his mood. He’d been punished, of course, for coming home late. But it had been worth it.

Once they had reached Matt’s shop, Matt and Pidge proceeded to poke and prod at Keith, taking measurements and rattling off equations he couldn’t bother attempting to understand. He isn’t quite sure what it is they have planned, but by the end of the day they seemed convinced that Keith wouldn’t be recognized at the race. He has standing orders to meet them at their house before the tournament.

So he’d taken the punishment, the quick whips across his knuckles from Sendak’s belt, the rough treatment as Haxus manhandled him out the door to spend the night in the barn. His hands had stung, and the night had been cold, even with Dip at his side, but he’d found something within him that he’d thought he’d lost up a long time ago: hope. 

He doesn’t know when that simple trip off-planet became everything to him. He wants it so bad, he dreams about it. He scrubs the toilets in Sendak’s manor and tries to imagine how the manor would look like from high above, where Sendak would never be able to catch him. He tunes out Sendak and Haxus’ endless lectures and verbal beatings by listing constellations in his head, wondering if they’re harder to point out when surrounded by stars on all sides. 

He reasons while making Sendak’s dinner that, though it may be a luxury trip, the Queen wouldn’t allow them to fly off with just any pilot at the helm. They’ll probably be experienced, maybe even one of the royal fighter pilots. He hopes that maybe he’d be able to talk to them, maybe gain an in to the Royal Flight Academy. Or maybe the prince, if he’s not as terrible as Keith imagines he is, could put in a good word for him.

He ends up overcooking Sendak’s steak, but he doesn’t mind so much when he’s punished for it, because a much-desired vacation has become an escape, a way out of this place for good. 

And at night, when Sendak’s asleep, and Haxus has locked himself away in his quarters, Keith goes as quietly as he can to the barn, and he works on his bike. 

It’s calming work, and he’s proud of it. He stops on the way in from town on his grocery run and picks up what replacement parts he can afford. He thinks a lot about being young and going to his dad’s shop to watch him work. Back then, his dad had always played music. Keith can’t take the risk of making that much noise, but he finds himself humming softly under his breath anyway. He spends the first few nights making sure it’s running to the best of its ability, and then he walks it out of the barn and out onto the open road. 

This is when he lets the freedom get to his head, when he forgets that he’s the unluckiest bastard alive. This is where he fucks up because he  _ loves  _ it. He throws himself into these late night practice rides, driving as fast as he can down empty dirt roads. That late at night, he’s free to go wherever. He flies through open plains, secure in the knowledge there’s nothing for him to hit. He tilts his head back, up at the bright, clear sky. He finds himself wishing on stars, like a little kid. 

And then, the night before the tournament, he gets caught. 

The kicker is that he’d thought he’d gotten away with it. Truly. He’d returned a couple of hours before dawn and walked the bike into the barn as usual. He had even managed to stop Dip from barking at the sight of him, something he’d failed to do the past few nights. He had thought he’d be fine. He’d gotten cocky.

The day passes without much fanfare. Haxus runs him ragged with chores, but it isn’t anything he isn’t used to, and he’s already planned on getting a full night of sleep anyway. Keith feels antsy the entire day, adrenaline coursing through him in his quiet excitement. The day passes in a blur, and soon enough he’s serving Sendak his dinner. 

Keith makes sure everything is perfect. He doesn’t burn anything, and he takes care to set the table correctly. He needs Sendak to believe that nothing is different, that Keith is nothing more than his dedicated little servant. He can’t afford to piss him off so close to the tournament. It will make it easier for Keith to sneak off later. 

Once Sendak is settled, Keith makes to excuse himself, prepared to return to the kitchen to eat his own meager share of the dinner he’d prepared, but before he can go Sendak clears his throat. 

“Keith,” he says, voice strangely amiable. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Keith’s blood goes cold. 

“Um,” Keith says. He fidgets where he stands, anxious to leave. “My dinner is, uh, in the kitchen. Like usual.”

Keith remembers the only other time he had sat at that table, the night the town authorities had dumped him on Sendak’s doorstep. He had been nine and so hungry, having gone days and days without food. Haxus had set the plate down before him, and he’d dug in with his bare hands, frenzied. 

Sendak had hit him, then, for getting food on the pristine white tablecloth. “ _ You’re nothing but a dog, _ ” he had said. “ _ No better than your mother was. _ ” He had poured Keith’s plate onto the marble flooring then, scowling. Keith had had to eat his food off of the floor for a week, after that. 

“Nonsense,” Sendak says. “You work hard, Keith. Have a seat and take a rest.”

Alarm bells are ringing in Keith’s head, triggering his fight or flight response. He’s leaning towards flight, itching to run out of there, out the kitchen door. He could grab Dip and make a break for it. He’s sure Pidge’s family would shelter him for a bit. Pidge has offered before, but Keith had never taken her up on it. The gleam in Sendak’s eye has him wishing he had.

Keith sits awkwardly at the seat closest to where he had been standing, about halfway down the table from Sendak’s spot at the head of it. The room is larger than it needs to be, and not as well-lit as it should be. The only light comes from several strategically placed candelabras that Keith hates, and their shadows dance across the walls in the firelight. Keith sits at the edge of the chair, barely perched on the deep burgundy velvet, ready to spring up at any moment. 

For once, Haxus isn’t there, and Keith is starting to realize that something is wrong. He’d been so distracted the entire day. He hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He hasn’t made that mistake in ages. 

Sendak doesn’t say anything after that, seemingly content to quietly eat the dinner Keith had prepared for him. For a long while, the only sound in the room is the delicate tinkling of silverware against expensive china. Keith swallows.

“Where’s Haxus?” he asks, finally, after they’ve been sitting so long that he can no longer take the silence. 

“He’s away, tending to some errands,” Sendak says. “There’s an important royal event taking place tomorrow. Didn’t you know?”

Keith freezes. He clasps his hands together to stop them from shaking. “Uh, no,” he lies, unconvincingly. “I didn’t know.”

“Surely you must have heard,” Sendak says. “It’s the talk of the town.”

“You know I don’t really go into town that often,” Keith says. “Just for...groceries. I don’t linger.” He moves his hands to grip the arm of his chair, wincing at the loud creak of the wood as he shifts. “Is it, uh...Is it a ball?”

Sendak hums. “There is a ball, yes,” he says. “It all feels rather tedious, if I’m being honest.”

Keith nods his head, unsure of how to respond. They fall silent again, and Keith squirms, uncomfortable. 

“It’s a tournament,” Sendak continues. “Something to do with that fool prince living up in the castle. Rumor has it the first event is to be some type of race.”

Sendak takes a bite of food and goes quiet while he chews, looking contemplative. “Though, you know, this tournament is quite different from the others,” he says. “Do you know why?”

He doesn’t wait for Keith to answer. “They’re actually allowing common people to take part,” he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice like he’s saying something scandalous. “Can you believe that?”

Keith swallows again. “That’s...crazy,” Keith says. “Do you...Do you know why?”

Sendak shrugs, returning to his food. “It’s probably to ensure the Queen remains in good favor with the public,” he says conversationally. “What else could it be? Either way, I believe it to be a foolish endeavor. Do you know why I think that, Keith?”

This time, he waits for Keith’s response, eyeing him from the end of the table with a look that Keith can’t quite read.

“No,” Keith says after a moment. “Why do you feel that way?”

“Oh, many reasons,” Sendak says. “But first and foremost because I believe everything has its place. We all have roles to fill, things we were meant to do. If we were to go about switching them up, what do you think would happen?”

Keith doesn’t say anything.

“Chaos,” Sendak says. “It would be chaos. And having events such as this disrupts that balance. Do you see what I mean, Keith?”

Keith does. He knows what Sendak is trying to say, and he finds himself gritting his teeth. He’s surprised by the anger that has started to build beneath the fear and trepidation. He’s so close, and there’s so much at stake. He bites his tongue. 

“We all have our places,” Sendak says. “And if we blur those lines the way this tournament suggests, we give those who are lesser false hope. Hope that they may become royal, hope that they may become more than what they are. But they can’t. Inviting them to take part is more of a disservice to them than anything.”

Keith can no longer bite his tongue. His foolish temper is singing beneath his skin, burning. “Maybe so,” Keith says, through a clenched jaw, “but the Queen ordered it, so obviously she viewed it as a valuable risk.”

Sendak shrugs again, taking another bite of food. “I suppose,” he says. Then, without looking at Keith. “So, how was your ride last night?”

Keith freezes, eyes widening. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Sendak asks.

Keith clenches his fists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” Sendak continues. “Did you think you could do anything in this house without me knowing?” 

And then he’s up, on his feet before Keith can register, looming over him. He has one hand wrapped in Keith’s shirt, and the other curled around the hilt of his steak knife. “Tell me, Keith. What made you think you had any right? Sneaking around on my property, right under my nose--”

Keith is taking shallow breaths. He’s terrified, scared in a way that feels instinctive, primal. But he’s also pissed. So, so pissed at everything. He’s pissed at Sendak, for somehow managing to beat him into this cowardly shell of a person. He’s pissed at the prince, and Hunk, and this tournament he’d built up in his head like a guaranteed miracle. He’s pissed at his parents for leaving him, and he’s pissed at himself, for being so god damned naive. 

Keith makes a noise like a snarl, jerking back in an attempt to break out of Sendak’s hold. It doesn’t work, of course. Sendak is large and strong, and Keith has never been any sort of match for him. 

Sendak chuckles. “Do you see now?” he says. “How this ridiculous event has poisoned your mind?” He uses his other hand to grasp at the collar of Keith’s shirt, still holding the knife. Keith pulls his face away from it, reaching up to grab Sendak’s wrists, doing all he can to push them off of him.

“You can’t stop me,” Keith hisses. “It’s an order from the Queen. You can’t--”

“I  _ own _ you, boy!” Sendak bellows. “I will do whatever it is I please and  _ no one _ will stop me.” He pushes Keith back in the chair, leaning forward and brandishing the knife in Keith’s face. “Did you think otherwise? Did you think that anyone would care? You’re nothing. You’re no one.”

He presses the knife to Keith’s cheek, pressing in slightly, and Keith flinches back. 

“I bet you were dreaming of it,” Sendak says “About the tournament. About the ball and the prince. I bet you were dying for the chance of someone actually caring about you.”

He begins to drag the knife down Keith’s face, and Keith chokes. He closes his eyes against the pain, feeling blood oozing down his face and neck. 

“Let’s see how good your chances are now,” Sendak says. “How good do you think they will be when the prince sees you as you are? Scarred and alone.”

He pushes Keith’s face away roughly, and Keith opens his eyes. He glances at Sendak, but doesn’t say anything. The side of this face stings horribly.

Sendak stands back, and his breathing is slightly heavy as he struggles to compose himself. His hand is covered in blood, and he pulls out a pristine white handkerchief to wipe it off. 

“But no matter,” he sighs, still slightly panting. “Because you will not be participating anyway. I’ve had Haxus make all the arrangements.”

Keith goes still. “What arrangements?” he asks.

“That worthless pile of scrap metal in the barn,” Sendak says. “It’s been sold. Haxus is delivering it to the buyer at this very moment.” 

He turns away, then, walking calmly back to his seat as Keith’s breath hitches. “Let this serve as a lesson to you,” Sendak says, gracefully sitting back in his chair. “I take matters of my property very seriously.” He takes a sip of his glass of wine, eye glinting in the candlelight. “You’re dismissed.”

Keith runs.

He’s clumsy with it, banging into the kitchen and knocking into furniture. He knocks his cold plate of food off of the counter as he flees, and even now in the back of his mind he dreads having to clean that up. 

The cool night air is painful in his aching throat, but he takes heaving breaths of it anyway, blinking away tears. Dip is at his heels as soon as he leaves the house, barking happily as Keith stumbles towards the barn.

He hadn’t thought about it, but Haxus had only assigned him indoor chores the entire day. He’d been so lost. Tied up in his head daydreaming about pilots and planets. How could he have been so stupid? 

Dip seems to realize Keith’s not exactly in the mood to play, staring up at him with big sad eyes. He follows Keith to the barn, the low pattering of his paws on the dirt a quick counterpoint to Keith’s trudging steps. 

He makes his way into the barn, clumsily batting at the light switch. Sure enough, there’s nothing there when it turns on. The tarp he had kept it under is in a heap on the ground. 

Keith sits down in the middle of the room, exhausted. Dip tentatively crawls into his lap, leaning up to lick at the underside of his jaw, and Keith lets the tears fall, quick and hotter than the blood still oozing from his cheek. It doesn’t matter that he’s still mindlessly, overwhelmingly angry at Sendak. It won’t fix anything, won’t bring his bike back. He has no chance of entering the tournament, now. Just another thing falling through his fingers.

He reaches into his jacket, around Dip, and pulls out his knife, holding it in both hands before him. He slowly unwraps the gauze around it, unveiling the purple-grey blade, the luminescent crystal at its hilt. Mindlessly, he moves his hand over it, calling back old sword lessons with his mom, and the blade extends into a sword. He thinks, _ “This is all I have, now.”  _

Everything Keith owns sits in his lap in that moment. He has his mom’s knife and he has a little dog and he has his own stupid, worthless life. He doesn’t want it.

He throws the sword with a snarl, and it embeds deep into the wooden wall of the barn before transforming back into a knife. Startled, Dip hops off of his lap, barking.

“Sorry buddy,” Keith says, speaking softly and reaching forward to scratch behind Dip’s ears. “I...sorry.” His voice cracks, and he does his best to wipe his still rapidly falling tears and only succeeding in smearing them painfully into his cut. “Sorry.”

Dip whines, dancing on his little feet, before pushing forward to burrow his way back under Keith’s arms and into his lap. Keith hugs him, bending forward as much as he can to push his face into Dip’s dirty fur. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Dip’s soft snuffling in his ears.

  
  
  


Then, he wakes up.

He sits up, startled and unsure of where he is. Dipshit’s growling at something, and Keith rubs the heels of his palms roughly into his eyes to clear them. 

Then, Keith hears it, the thing that woke him up.

“ _ Keith. Hey, Keith. Wake up!” _

He whips his head around, back to the doorway of the barn, and there’s Pidge. She looks disheveled, with huge bags under her eyes and a glare so strong Keith almost forgets that she absolutely, one hundred percent  _ cannot _ be here. 

“Pidge!” he hisses, scrambling to stand. “What are you  _ doing _ here?”

Pidge rolls her eyes, stepping into the barn. “Relax,” she says. “Sendak has already left for the palace and he took his minion. What are  _ you _ doing?”

Keith blinks, looking down at his dusty and bloodstained appearance. “I, uh…”

Pidge gives him an unimpressed look, then calls over her shoulder. “Matt, he’s in here!”

After a moment, Matt pokes his head into the doorway. “Morning, Keith!” he says. “You’re cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?”

When he gets a good look at Keith, though, his face drops into an frown. “Whoa, man. What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Pidge says angrily. She steps forward and grabs for Keith’s chin, pulling him down to inspect the cut. “I’m going to ruin that man’s life.”

“Um,” Keith says, wincing as she pulls on the skin of his cheek. 

She lets go of his face and steps back, shrugging off her backpack and dropping it to the ground. Dip toddles forward to inspect the bag’s content as she kneels to rummage through it. 

“You,” she says to Matt. “You take care of  _ that.” _ She gestures vaguely at Keith. “I’ll get everything ready.”

Matt salutes cheekily, before pulling off his own backpack.

“Guys,” Keith says, and his voice is rough from a night spent crying. “What are you--"

“We still have an hour and a half before the tournament,” Pidge says, not looking from where she’s pulling things out of her bag. “You were supposed to meet us at our  _ house _ \--"

“You really scared us, you know,” Matt says, stepping forward with some type of cloth and moving to wipe the dried blood off of Keith’s face. “Pidge was up all night.”

Keith tries and fails to dodge Matt’s ministrations. “Pidge would have been up all night anyway,” he says, hissing as Matt smears some kind of healing cream on the gash.

“You’re probably right,” Matt says easily, smiling as he unwraps a large bandage and slaps it on Keith’s cheek. “But it was worse last night.”

“Shut up, Matt. I had shit to do,” Pidge says. Then she stands, holding up what looks like some kind of bodysuit. “Now, Keith. Put this on.”

Keith steps back, away from the both of them. “Wait, guys,” he says. “I...listen. I’m not entering the tournament.”

“Of course you are,” Pidge says. “I just spent a week making a state of the art suit of armor for you.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “What-- _ really?” _

“ _ Yes _ ,” Pidge says. “And we really have to get going, or it’s all going to be for nothing--"

“I  _ can’t,”  _ Keith interrupts. “Sendak, he...he found out, somehow. He--" Keith’s face crumples against his will, and he coughs into his hand. “My dad’s bike. He sold it. I have nothing to ride.”

Pidge’s face softens, eyes wide and sympathetic, but there’s also something guilty in her expression when she says, “Uh. Yeah, actually. I know.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it. His brow furrows. “Wait,” he says. “You  _ know?” _

“Yeah,” Pidge says. She turns her foot around in the dirt, pulling her hands behind her back. “I uh, I bought it.”

Keith’s jaw drops.

“Hey,” Matt says, frowning. “ _ I  _ bought it.”

“I did all of the work,” Pidge says. “Shut up.”

“You...you  _ bought my bike? _ ” Keith says. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“It was last minute!” Pidge cries. “I was looking for parts and I saw it had been listed, and I knew what that asshole was trying to do. This all happened like,  _ yesterday _ . I had to spend the entire day corresponding with his dickhead butler who kept trying to screw me out of more money--”

“You...Where is it?” Keith says.

“We have it outside,” Matt says. “It really was all pretty quick. Lord Sendak  _ really _ wanted to get rid of it.”

“What an ass,” Pidge mutters. “But it’s whatever. You need to get changed now!”

“ _ Guys _ ,” Keith says. “You didn’t have to...for me--”

He closes his mouth, wringing his hands and looking down at the dirt floor. There’s the sound of footsteps, and Matt places a hand on Keith’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. “It was really no trouble. You know the shop’s been doing really well, and Katie got a bargain. We couldn’t let him sell your bike, man.”

Pidge steps up as well, nodding. “I know how much you love that pile of junk,” she says. “And anyway, how do you expect to win that date with the prince if you have no ride?”

Keith huffs. “I don’t care about the date,” he says, but then he sighs. “It doesn’t matter though. If he sees it, he’ll know it’s me. And this,” he points at his bandaged face. “Will be the least of my problems.”

“Right, about that,” Pidge says, looking sheepish. She twirls one toe, making a hole in the dirt floor of the barn. “I may have made some...updates.”

“What,” Keith says. 

“Upgrades!” Pidge calls, but Keith is already nearly out the door. “They needed to be made, Keith!”

Keith steps out into the sunlight, wincing in the bright light. When his eyes adjust, though, he stops.

Hovering maybe ten feet away from the barn is his bike, looking good as new. Pidge has added some kind of extra part to the center of the handlebars, and it looks as though it’s been washed. And it’s--

“It’s  _ red _ ,” Keith breathes.

“Uh, yeah,” Pidge says, popping up at his side. She looks up at him with a smirk. “I figured you’d like that little bit of detail.”

Keith walks forward, reaching out to run his hands over the smooth metal, like he’s done hundreds of times before. The cherry red is bright and confident in the morning sun. Somehow it looks  _ faster _ , just by being a different color. “You did all this in one night?” he says.

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Of course I did. What do you take me for, some kind of amateur?” she says, stepping forward. She starts pointing out different parts of the bike. “I updated your navigation system, and made some minor changes to the engine to make it run smoother. And this,” she points to a switch that hadn’t been there before. “Is a  _ rocket boost _ .”

“I’d be careful with the rocket boost,” Matt calls from somewhere behind them.

“Don’t listen to him,” Pidge says. “ _ Rocket boost _ .”

_ “Pidge _ ,” Keith says, and to his horror he finds his eyes filling with tears for the five hundredth time in less than twenty-four hours. “Jesus,” he says, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. “What the fuck is up with all this  _ crying _ \--”

Pidge fidgets uncomfortably at his side. “Don’t...Don’t worry about it,” she says, awkwardly. Then, in a bizarre show of affection, she wraps both arms around Keith’s middle, squeezing him tight. “I just...I just want to see you happy, dude. You’re always so...It was nothing, really.”

Keith nods, one arm still pressed to his face. He uses the other to pull her closer.

“Awww,” Matt says, still at a distance.

“Oh my  _ god _ , Matt,” Pidge says, pulling away from Keith to glare back at her brother. “Enough mushy feelings talk. You need to get changed, Keith.”

Keith pulls himself together, nodding. He’s feeling the ghost of his previous excitement, pulling the corners of his mouth up into a smile. His friend did this for him, so he’s going to take it seriously. “What do you need me to do?” 

Pidge beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always you can find me on [tumblr](http://www.wizzardblizzard.tumblr.com) or if u want on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/usernicole) bother me into writing this or my other wip i guess
> 
> but in like, a chill way
> 
> as always #letteamvoltronsayfuck


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome to the tournament, everybody,” Prince Lance says, once the cheers have died down. “In case you haven’t yet guessed, the first event is...a race!” More cheers. “Thanks so much to you all for coming out. Imagine how embarrassing it would have been if no one showed up, huh?”
> 
> The crowd doesn’t respond, and the prince clears his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who ever heard of "pacing" in writing?? ALL ACTION ALL THE TIME
> 
> thanks everyone for your comments and kudos !!!

“Hunk, I can’t do this,” Lance says.

Hunk hums in sarcastic agreement, not looking up from his tablet. “Sure, buddy,” he says.

“No, really,” Lance says. “I can’t. Look at this!”

He gestures to the thick red curtain separating them from the rest of the people. He pulls it back slightly, exposing the crowd of people gathered. There are so many.

“There are so many,” Lance whispers.

“Well, would you look at that,” Hunk says, _still_ not looking up. “People like you. I don’t see what the big deal is. You like attention. You go out in front of crowds all the time.”

“Not crowds like this!” Lance hisses. “Normal crowds! Filled with the general public! Not an entire group of people that want to...want to _bone_.”

“I’m sure not all of them want to bone,” Hunk says reasonably. “At least Allura doesn’t.”

“That doesn’t help,” Lance snaps, before turning back to the crowd. “Most of them will be eliminated in this round, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Hunk says. He finally puts away his datapad and moves forward to adjust Lance’s sash. “The first four to cross the finish line will move on in the tournament.”

Lance snorts. “So much for equal opportunity. The nobles are going to clean up.”

“Hey,” Hunk says. “You never know.”

Lance gives him a blank look.

“Really!” Hunk laughs. “You don’t know what people have out there.”

“Hunk,” Lance says, moving and gesturing to the gap in the curtain. “Look down at the front.”

Hunk does, and immediately rolls his eyes. “Is that necessary?” he asks.

Down at the front of the crowd is none other than Lotor, Galra Prince of Daibazaal. He’s lounging smugly against the side of what is no doubt his kingdom’s fastest, newest, state of the art hovercar. It’s sleek and black, with orange and purple accents. It’s a complete eyesore at the center of Lance’s cheery, woodland kingdom.

He’s speaking to Allura, who is looking politely disinterested in what he has to say. She is standing next to her own vehicle, a bulky speeder that her father--the King of Altea, the neighboring kingdom--and his advisor have no doubt modified with all sorts of upgrades and gadgets.

“They’re going to leave everyone in the dust,” Lance says sadly. Hunk hits him on the shoulder.

“You’re being an ass,” Hunk says.

“That’s easy for you to say!” Lance says. “ _You’re_ not the one who’s going to end up making goo-goo eyes at Lotor over a romantic, starlit dinner!”

“ _I’m_ not the one who had a crush on him!”

“It was _once_ for like _five minutes_ when I was _twelve--”_

“Boys.”

The two of them straighten, turning in unison to face the Queen.

 _“Mom,_ ” Lance whines. “This was supposed to be a _fair_ tournament.”

Her brow furrows. She looks regal as ever, even in the already smoldering heat of the day. “How is it not fair?” she asks.

“Really?” Lance says. “Look!” He gestures at the gap in the curtains. “You may as well have advertised it as ‘The Lotor Games.’”

The three of them move to the gap, their heads stacked one on top of the other in order of height. After a moment, the Queen says, “Oh, is that necessary?”

“Do you see what I mean?” Lance says, and they all pull out of view from the crowd. “Why’d you invite him?”

“I couldn’t _not_ invite him,” the Queen says. “How would that have looked?”

“Good!” Lance says. “For me!”

“Because I’m sure Lord Zarkon would _so_ appreciate knowing that we invited every person in the kingdom and all of the neighboring kingdoms except for his son,” she says. “That would no doubt go well in regards to our extremely tenuous treaty with the Galra.”

“He’s only here _because_ of that treaty,” Lance huffs, crossing his arms.

“I’m sure everything will work out fine,” the Queen says. She steps forward to fuss with Lance’s hair, deftly avoiding his hands as he tries to bat her away. “Remember, none of this is set in stone. This is just...a debut! We’re just trying to get you out there. Quickly. To as many people as possible.”

Lance rolls his eyes, ignoring Hunk snickering in the background. “I was doing fine getting out there on my own,” he mutters.

“Oh, honey,” the Queen says, setting her hands on Lance’s shoulders. “You were not. It was hard to watch. Now, shall we?”

She gestures toward the gap in the curtain, and Lance swallows. Hunk leaves first, stepping up to the podium and announcing their presence. He’s getting ridiculously good at this thing, Lance notices. When they were younger, speaking in front of crowds and other official business would leave Hunk nauseous and heaving, stumbling out into the public green and clammy. This new, confident Hunk is strange to see. It’s not bad, by any means, but there’s a part of Lance that sees it as another thing in his life that is changing, like he can feel the planet moving under his feet.

Lance’s mother slips her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing in as close to his side as her dress allows. “Don’t worry,” she says, patting his arm comfortingly. When he looks down at her, she’s smiling. “I have a good feeling about this.”

“I really hope you’re right,” Lance says, and the two of them step out into the sunlight.

***

Keith is going to be late.

It’s minutes before the cut-off for applicants to the tournament, and he’s pushing his bike as fast as it will go. He’d long passed Pidge and Matt, driving along with him on Matt’s dinky scooter (with matching sidecar for Pidge), and they’d waved him off before veering away to where spectators were designated.

The bike is running smoother than it ever has, Pidge’s influence obvious in every sharp turn Keith takes. He’s still getting used to it, which has him slightly worried for the race, but it’s not like he has a choice.

He loosens his grip on the handlebars, forcing himself to relax. He shifts in the seat, and his armor creaks. He’s getting used to that too. Pidge and Matt had done an incredible job, and it fits like a glove, but it’s weight he’s not accustomed to carrying, too used to riding everywhere in a tattered jacket and pants. When Keith had made a face at the sight of it, Pidge just glared.

“You’re not going out there without some form of protection,” she had said, shaking the bodysuit in his face. “You don’t know what everyone else is going to bring to the table. We don’t know how many people are participating. There are no rules! What if it’s a complete bloodbath? ”

“Jesus, Pidge,” Matt said. “No pressure or anything.”

“Also, me and Matt worked _very hard_ ,” Pidge said, ignoring Matt and hitting Keith where it hurts. “We designed it just for you. _Take it_.”

The armor is a dark purple, probably to match Keith’s bike as it had been before, with darker accents. It’s light, but whatever material they had used feels sturdy. He hadn’t really had time to examine it before they’d set off, but he doesn’t have much problem moving around. Keith can’t help but be slightly in awe of it, Pidge and Matt really are incredible.

To top it all off, they’d created a special mask for him to wear. It obscured his entire face, lacking any type of distinguishing facial features, and displayed all sorts of doodads and monitors within Keith's vision. He had almost immediately shut everything off, too distracted to drive. He feels a bit guilty about that and the fact that, when he'd caught his own reflection in the shiny red of his hoverbike, he’d thought the mask was a bit creepy.

But there isn’t time for Keith to dwell on any of this, because he’s going to be late, and all of the hard work the Holt siblings put into his scary mask will be for nothing.

He makes another turn, and in the distance he can finally see a large crowd of people and vehicles. They're haphazardly scattered, with no discernable order, so when Keith reaches them he skids to a stop at the very back.

 _“Great,”_ he thinks. _“Already in last place.”_

Far, far in front of him, a wooden stage has been erected, and the gaudily-dressed people standing atop of it can only be the royals. He can barely see them, but the sun is glinting brightly off of their shiny crowns. He squints, and suddenly his vision tunnels and he's treated to an extreme close-up of the Queen’s left nostril.

“Oh, _what?_ Pidge, jesus--” he mutters, blinking his eyes hard and attempting to stop the mask from zooming in on the prince's face. “What the... _oh christ--_ ”

“You doing okay, there?”

Keith's spine goes ramrod straight, and his vision goes back to normal. Next to him stands a man clutching the handles of his own (black and chrome) hoverbike, wearing an amused expression.

“Uh,” Keith says. His voice is slightly muffled by the mask. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” the man says. Keith takes the opportunity afforded by his mask to examine him. He looks familiar, though Keith is unable to place how. He’s pretty tall, and muscular, with dark eyes and black hair that is interrupted by a tuft of white at the very front. One of his arms is mechanical.

“My, uh, mask,” Keith says, nonsensically. “I'm still getting used to it.”

The man hums. “Should you be wearing it, then?” he asks, and even manages to look concerned. “It doesn’t seem very safe.”

“No, I mean, yeah!” Keith stutters. “I need it. For...medically. I need it for...my health?”

The man narrows his eyes, looking suspicious for a split second, before his expression clears and he reaches out a hand for Keith to shake. “Well, that's okay, I suppose,” he says. “I'm Shiro. Nice to meet you. You were cutting it a bit close, don't you think?”

Keith shakes his hand, feeling wrong-footed in the face of the man’s cheerfulness. “I'm, um. Yeah. Nice to meet you too.” He pulls his hand from Shiro's and scratches the back of his hooded head. “I had bike troubles.”

“Well it’s a good thing you made it on time,” Shiro says. “You wouldn't want to miss your chance with the prince, now would you?”

Keith frowns behind his mask. “I don't care about the date,” he says. “I just want the free trip.”

Shiro freezes, and then laughs. “I suppose that’s fine as well,” he says. “I thought I would be the only one here who wasn't trying for the prince's hand.”

“You're not?” Keith asks.

“I think my fiance would have a problem with that,” Shiro says, smirking. “No, I'm not here to marry Prince Lance. I don’t even really care about the trip, to be honest. I'm a pilot, so…”

Keith’s eyes widen, and he takes a moment to swallow the quiet, awestruck feeling he gets from this new information. He has a million questions, and this is neither the time nor the place. “So what are you here for?” he asks.

Shiro shrugs. “The fun of it, I suppose,” he responds. “That and my fiance told me he doesn't think I could win against the fancy nobles and their hovercars.” He rolls his eyes. “That’s him over there, actually,” Shiro continues. He waves over at a dark-skinned man far ahead of them in the crowd, leaning up against his own hoverbike. When the man catches Shiro waving at him, he gives Shiro the finger before gesturing at the stage, as though saying, “Pay attention, dumbass!”

“He got here super early, just to shove his timeliness in my face,” Shiro says.

“He seems...nice,” Keith says, unsure.

Shiro snorts. “He doesn’t. We’ve got a bet going on, to see who gets the furthest to winning.”

Keith nods. “Cool,” he says. This conversation has gone on far too long for Keith’s floundering social skills to handle. “Maybe we should, uh, pay attention?”

“You’re right,” Shiro says, nodding. “The prince is about to start his speech.”

Keith turns to look, and sure enough the prince is stepping up to the podium. From this distance, all Keith can see of him is that he’s pretty slim, and he has brown hair. Keith has never really been one to care for gossip about the royal family, and he seldom goes to town. He wonders if maybe the prince is horrendously ugly, and that’s why he has to have a competition to find someone to marry him, but then the screens at the sides of the stage flicker on, and Keith is looking into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.

He’s smiling, the prince, and he barely even looks nervous. He has a slim nose, and nice teeth. His hair is shiny under the sun and it looks soft, and his fancy white clothes leave him almost glowing.  He’s just so... _bright_. Keith suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The prince claps his hands together and says, “Hey, what’s up guys!”

Keith closes his mouth with an audible clap.

Shiro, next to him, nudges Keith with one shoulder, arms crossed. “He’s cute, right?”

Keith scowls at him, and Shiro grins back, teasing in a way that’s possibly too familiar for someone Keith just met.

“Welcome to the tournament, everybody,” Prince Lance says, once the cheers have died down. “In case you haven’t yet guessed, the first event is...a race!” More cheers. “Thanks so much to you all for coming out. Imagine how embarrassing it would have been if no one showed up, huh?”

The crowd doesn’t respond, and the prince clears his throat.

“Anyway, I’m happy to see your shining faces here so early in the morning. As for the race, I’m sorry to say only the first four competitors will be moving forward in the competition--no don’t be like that! We have three days to work with, here! Did you think you all were going to make it to the final?”

The crowd around Keith is grumbling unhappily, and Keith understands. There have to be at least fifty competitors. He looks around, feeling the beginnings of worry simmering in his gut. It’s a lot to be eliminated all at once. There are quite a few people Keith mentally discounts as he spots them, people on scooters and bicycles and even _horses_. But there are also quite a few bikes that look newer than his own, like Shiro’s, and Keith can see some snotty looking people up towards the front who have hovercars. However this goes down, it’s not going to be easy. _That’s_ for sure.

“The most important thing, of course,” Prince Lance continues, “is that all of you are safe. There are a lot of you, and not a lot of space. I don’t want any of you taking unnecessary risks.” On the big, bright screen, Keith watches the prince’s brow furrow. “It’s not worth it,” he says. “Nothing we have offered today is worth your life, or the lives of others. It’s for _fun_.” He leans back and musses his own hair, ruining its perfect styling and dislodging the careful placement of his crown. “Can’t you just _have fun_ for an hour?”

Hunk, who had been standing respectfully just behind the prince’s shoulder, makes a jerking motion, and the prince flinches. “That’s all I wanted to say,” the prince concludes. “Have fun, be safe, and I’ll see you all at the finish line!”

The cheers, this time, are even louder than before. Keith winces at the sound, ignoring Shiro as he pats Keith on the back and shouts cheerful insults at his fiance, who Keith now learns is named Adam.

Up on the stage, Hunk has stepped up and is working to calm them all down. “Okay, okay,” he calls, waving his arms. “ _Okay._ The race will commence in just a few minutes, the course has been marked for you all to follow. _Please_ no one die.” And with that, he steps back. Him and the prince disappear behind the curtains of the stage, and the crowd, if possible, gets rowdier.

“This is exciting, right?” Shiro asks. He’s knelt down next to his bike, checking something. Keith shrugs.

“I don’t need to be excited, I just need to win,” Keith says.

Shiro looks cautiously up at him. “It’s just a game,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing Keith. “It’s not that serious.”

 _He has no idea_ , Keith thinks. He doesn’t know what Keith is risking to be here, how much this race means to him. Keith needs this win, what would be his first in over a decade. Shiro’s already a pilot, he get to roam the skies to his heart’s content, and when he returns he comes home to a loving home, to a fiance who adores him. Keith can tell in the barely contained smiles they send each other, the way Shiro keeps turning towards Adam unconsciously, like Adam’s his north star. Shiro is doing this for fun, Keith is doing it because he needs it to survive.

“Not for me,” Keith says, voice steady.

Shiro continues to look at him for a moment, as though assessing him. “This is really important to you?”

Keith nods his head once. He shifts uncomfortably. There’s something about Shiro that’s gotten under Keith’s skin, even in this short amount of time. He feels like Shiro can read him, even through the mask. There’s just...something, and Keith isn’t sure if he likes it. “I just,” Keith starts. “I mean...I’ve never been off-world, so...”

Shiro stands up, dusting off his knees. He gives Keith a long, contemplative look. “Okay,” Shiro says. “I’ll help you, then.”

Keith gawks. “What?”

“I’m going to help you win.” Shiro shrugs. “I only have to beat Adam, not win the entire thing. Everyone should get to go off-world, at least once.”

“You barely know me!” Keith sputters.

Shiro shrugs again. “I gotta feeling,” he says. “You seem like a good kid. Let me help.” He grins down at Keith, looking something like a fairytale hero. “We’re going to destroy these guys.”

Keith stutters for a moment. “You can’t even tell how old I am,” he says.

“Oh, I can,” Shiro says. “Now get on your bike. The race is about to start.”

Sure enough, the people around them are starting their engines, climbing up on their horses and fastening their driving gloves. Shiro, when Keith looks over at him, has a slightly dangerous look in his eye, determined and delighted. It ignites the fire in Keith’s chest, and he climbs onto his own bike, running his hands over the cherry-red finish.

Keith eyes his competition, revving his engine and letting its vibrations shake him to his core. Up ahead, on the stage, the prince has once again emerged, clutching a blaster in one hand.

“When it starts,” Shiro says, just loud enough for Keith to hear, “hang back.”

“Why?” Keith says, indignant. The urge to fly is like lightning in his veins. It’s taking everything in him not to take off, to way for the prince’s signal.

“You’ll see,” Shiro says.

On the stage, the prince steps to the microphone. “Okay, everyone! The time is now. Good luck, be safe. On the count of three. One, two…”

He raises his hand and the pistol in it, and shoots.

It’s chaos.

The nobles at the front, of course, take off perfectly, but the rest of the crowd doesn’t fare nearly as well. There is an eruption of dust as they all move at once, immediately crashing into each other.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Keith says, and is hilariously parroted by the prince himself, over the microphone.

“We have to go!” Shiro yells.

“Go _where?”_ Keith yells back. He can barely see anything. When the dust clears, however, he can see the taillights of the nobles far up ahead.

“We have to get through,” Shiro calls.

“Fuck that,” Keith says. He watches as the line of cars curves up ahead. The starting point of the race is right in the middle of palace-owned crops, following a dirt road not unlike the ones Keith has been driving his entire life. On either side of the road are fields of flowers as far as the eye can see.

Keith looks over at Shiro, who seems to be attempting to find a way through the chaos.

“Shiro!” he calls.

“What?” He doesn’t look at Keith.

“Follow me,” Keith says, and then he swerves and plows straight into the fields.

“Wait--!” Shiro starts, but soon enough he’s following. The flowers beneath them flatten and part, but Keith can see the nobles across the field. At his side, he can see Shiro waving mockingly at Adam, stuck in the fray.

The field is obviously much rougher than the road, and very soon Keith’s hands begin to ache with the force of his grip on the handlebars, but sure enough they come across the bend of road the nobles are just reaching.

Unfortunately, there’s also a very sturdy fence, blocking them from it.

They drive alongside it, just behind the stream of nobles. “Now what?” Shiro yells, voice shaking as he’s jostled.

“I’m thinking,” Keith says. He can’t see any openings in the fence, and he doubts his bike would survive if he were to power through it. The ground is too flat to consider using the momentum of a hill to hop over, but--

“Hey!” Shiro calls, and when Keith looks, he’s pointing at an empty wooden wagon, set down at an angle with the high side coincidentally pressed to the top of the fence.

“Oh _hell_ yeah,” Keith says.

***

This is going much worse than Lance had anticipated.

As soon as the race began, and despite his warning, half of the race’s participants had smashed into each other. He’d been ushered into a hovercar not long after that, still shouting orders to the on-site medical personnel. Luckily, it seemed as though no one had been seriously hurt, with the majority mostly just embarrassed.

“Your _highness_ ,” Hunk had hissed, in the way he does when he’s particularly annoyed at Lance. “You need to proceed to the finish line.”

“What I _need_ is for someone, for once in my life, to listen to me when I talk,” Lance snaps. Hunk shoves a tablet into Lance’s hands as soon as the door to the hovercar closes behind him, displaying footage of the race. “I _told_ you this was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hunk mutters. “Just watch the feed.”

Some sort of drone has been programmed to follow the race as it progresses, zipping over the hovercars and hoverbikes that had made it through the fray. As predicted, Lotor and Allura are at the lead, neck and neck. Lance’s mouth twists. Allura winning would be fine, probably. He thinks the two of them would have fun on the off-world trip, at least. It would probably put Ideas into the heads of his mom and Allura’s dad, however. Dangerous, embarrassing, matchmaking ideas. It’s awkward enough being around Allura considering they had grown up with Lance harboring the biggest crush on her, but having their parents meddling would make things much worse.

“Why can’t Allura just throw the race?” he groans, watching as Allura skids around a corner in her speeder. The drone drops to show the determined look in her eyes, narrowed and glinting behind the windshield. “There’s no way she actually wants to win the date.”

Hunk snorts. “Maybe she doesn’t want to win the date,” he says. “But she definitely wants to win the race. Since when have we ever known Allura to throw anything? Anyway, why would you want her to throw the race? That means Lotor would win.”

Lance makes an unhappy noise. The drone on the screen peels away from Allura’s speeder and hops over to Lotor, leant back in the driver’s seat of his hovercar and smirking as though he’s already won. There are a few people almost keeping up to the two of them, swerving to avoid the tremendous amount of dust Lotor’s kicking up. “I don’t want either of them to win,” Lance says. “Preferably, no one would win, and we could all just go home.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Hunk says, looking at his communicator. “I’m ignoring you.”

The drone moves to show the others who are managing to keep up, and Lance hums. “Who’s that?” he asks, as a brown-haired boy rounds the corner on his hoverbike, shoulder almost skimming the dirt.

Hunk looks over. “James Griffin,” he says after a moment. “Firstborn son of Lord Griffin, up in Arus--?”

“He looks like an asshole,” Lance says.

“Nice to know you’re keeping an open mind.”

James Griffin is driving with a level of precision that Lance can admit is admirable. His bike is another newer model, gray with orange accents. “Do I know him?”

“He’s only been to like, every one of your birthday parties since you’ve been alive.”

“Well he should have made a bigger impression,” Lance sniffs. The drone moves on, to the next racer. It’s a girl, this time, driving a hovercar. She has pale blonde hair, and an almost manic look of glee on her face.

“Who’s _that?_ ”

Hunk glances over. “Oh, that’s Romelle!” Hunk says. “She’s friends with Allura. She’s really nice.”

Lance looks over at him, and Hunk does his best to look innocent.

“And?” Lance asks.

“And what?” Hunk says.

Lance narrows his eyes. Hunk sighs.

“And her father is the lord of a decent amount of land, in the mountains of Altea.”

Lance groans. “Come _on_ , Hunk. What did I tell you?”

“It’s not _my_ fault your mom’s council created a rigged tournament,” Hunk says. “Look, there’s another one.”

The camera drone is focused on the driver of a speeder tailing the first four, slowly moving to overtake Romelle. It has an open top, so Lance can see the way the wind is blowing the driver’s head around. He has a very serious look on his face, determined. “Oh,” Lance says. “That one’s cute.”

Hunk rolls his eyes, leaning to get a closer look. “Hey, I don’t recognize that one!” He narrows his eyes. “No, actually, you know what. That’s Ryan Kinkade of the Kerberos Kinkades.”

Lance sighs, slumping back. “At least they’re not nobles,” he says. “They’re just really, really rich.”

“Like, stupid rich,” Hunk says, still looking down at the tablet. Then his eyes widen. “Wha-Holy _shit_ dude!”

“What?” Lance asks. He pulls the tablet up to his face, just in time to see the distant silhouette of a hoverbike _driving through his mother’s juniberry crops_.

“What the fuck?” Hunk is saying, but Lance’s eyes are glued to the screen. “Is that allowed?”

“I mean, we never said it wasn’t,” Lance says, distracted. The mystery driver is riding a bright red hoverbike, an obviously older model. The camera drone hovers shakily around them, like it doesn’t know what to do. Close behind the mystery racer is another hoverbike. “Who _is_ that?”

“The mask kind of makes it hard for me to tell,” Hunk says sarcastically. “Your mom’s gonna be pissed, dude.”

Lance barks out a laugh. “God, I hope so.”

They watch the two hoverbikes excitedly, curled over their shared screen. It’s become obvious that the mystery driver hadn’t thought their plan through, because there’s no way for them to get through to the road.

“They’re going to come up to a bend soon,” Hunk says. “Oh, hey, isn’t that Takashi Shirogane?”

“The pilot?” Lance asks. “Isn’t that who my mom picked to fly the date shuttle? Why the hell is he racing?”

Hunk shrugs. They go back to watching in silence, and Lance bites his lip. He hadn’t expected anything like this to happen when his mother’s council had pitched the idea of a race, and he can’t help but feel excitement building inside him at the sight of it. There’s something compelling about the masked rider, about the mystery of them. Lance watches as they hunch over their handlebars, dodging flying leaves and flowers as they plow over the kingdom’s carefully preserved juniberries. Despite the bright red of their bike, their suit is all dark colors and clean lines. Their mask even lacks facial expression, any kind of defining features. Lance itches to see what’s under it.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Hunk says suddenly. “They are _not_.”

“What?” Lance says, snapping out of his quiet fascination. It doesn’t take long for him to see what Hunk is talking about. “I said not to take any unnecessary risks!”

Just ahead of the mystery racer is an abandoned wagon, tilted up like a ramp. It’s obvious immediately what they mean to do.

“Oh god, they’re gonna die,” Hunk says. “Oh god, we’re about to watch someone die. Oh god. I’m gonna be sick.”

 _“What the fuck are you doing, Red?”_ Lance thinks. The nickname comes naturally. The bike is, after all, the most distinct thing about them.

“Can we stop them?” Hunk continues. “I’m sure we have some guys out--”

It’s too late. Lance watches as Red revs their engine, bending forward even lower in an attempt to move even faster. Lance wonders what their expression looks like, behind the mask. Are they scared? Do they have a serious look on their face, like Ryan Kinkade? No, that’s not right. Lance thinks they’re probably smiling, probably loving this, and he imagines the look is much less irritating than it is on Lotor’s face, or James Griffin’s.

The bike hits the bottom of the wagon and ascends, and the hood of Red’s suit drops back off of their head. Lance has a split second to feel disappointed that the suit extends up over the top of their head--he doesn’t even know what their _hair_ looks like--and then Red is in the air.

Hunk is yelling, and Lance’s breath is caught in his throat. The drone rises, showing Red as their bike flies over Ryan Kinkade’s speeder, and then Romelle’s hovercar, casting a dark shadow over the both of them.

Lance doesn’t breathe, and Red crashes down, skidding sideways across the dirt. They nearly hit James, who swerves, throwing curses Red’s way, but they make it. They fucking make it, and they’re in third place, right behind Allura and Lotor.

And Lance is cheering, throwing his hands in the air and reaching over to clap Hunk on the back as his advisor tries to calm his breathing. “Holy shit!” Lance yells. “They did it! Did you see that?”

“This is too much,” Hunk wheezes. “You were right, this was a bad idea.”

“That was _so fucking cool_ ,” Lance crows. “Who _are_ they?”

Under the weight of Red’s hoverbike, the wagon had crashed down onto the line of fencing keeping them from the road, allowing for Takashi Shirogane to drive right through, coming up at the back. He’s laughing, long and loud enough that the drone picks up the sound even over the sound of the engines.

“They’re fucking insane,” Hunk says, finally having gotten his panicking under control. “Oh man, they’re about to hit the town.”

The track had been designed to move through Lance’s kingdom, ending at the palace, where the rest of the attendees are watching the race at the tournament grounds. Lance looks up, and sees that the hovercar he and Hunk are in is almost there. He can see the towers of the castle rising up as they make the final stretch.

On the tablet screen, Lotor and Allura speed through the town gates, nearly colliding as the streets narrow. Lance can see Allura gritting her teeth, hands clenched around her steering wheel. Lotor still looks smug, but Lance sees him occasionally glancing in his rearview mirror at Red, smirk faltering.

Red seems unphased. They move back and forth, looking for a way passed the two drivers ahead of them, but the streets are too narrow, and Lotor and Allura are neck and neck. Alongside the racers, there are people standing and cheering, waving flags that whip violently as the seven racers speed passed them.

As they progress through the town, the roads get narrower, and the line of vehicles filters into a single file, with Allura at the head and Lotor in second place. Lance huffs, clenching his fingers around the tablet. He can tell that Red is getting frustrated with the limited space, taking turns too closely and revving his engine.

Behind him, James seems even more irritated. Despite the extra room afforded by their choice of vehicles, he can’t seem to get even an inch on Red. The two of them dance around each other, with James never quite managing to follow Red’s erratic style of driving.

The drive through town is nerve-wracking, with its hills and sharp turns, and it starts to show in the way they drive. Lotor is right at Allura’s bumper, and they occasionally clash in a burst of sparks. Allura does her best to speed up, but her and Lotor are pretty evenly matched. James is yelling obscenities at Red, losing his temper, and when he bumps into the back half of Red’s bike, Red turns back to give him the finger. Romelle, Ryan, and Shirogane, in comparison, look as though they’re taking a leisurely drive through the city.

They’re in the final stretch of the city portion, when Lance sees Red perk up.

“Oh no, what’s he planning now?” Hunk asks.

“I have no clue,” Lance says, feeling a smile crawl across his face. He kinda likes that about Red.

The drivers plunge into the dark tunnel that will take them out of the town and onto palace grounds.

***

To be frank, Keith has no idea what he’s doing.

Anything after his big stunt with the wagon is pretty much news to him. He can’t believe that worked, and he survived, and his bike survived, and now he’s in _third place_. And he should be okay with this. Third is within the criteria he needs to move on to the second event of the tournament. Third is fine.

But it isn’t, because Keith wants to _win_.

He feels like he has electricity shooting through his veins, around and around like his hoverbike through this maze of a city. Travelling down the narrow streets and around sharp corners is frustrating, especially considering the fact that Keith is used to wide open fields and dirt roads, but he’s handling it. The asshole directly behind him seems to be having a considerably worse time, if the expletives Keith is hearing are any indication. The front of the asshole’s bike bumps into the back of Keith’s for what feels like the hundredth time, and Keith snarls.

“Fuck _off_ ,” Keith yells, turning and glaring. The guy just smirks back, and Keith decides then and there that he hates him. He turns back around and leans over his handlebars, mind racing to find any way to get passed the two people in front of him.

The path curves, and as Keith makes the turn he straightens at the sight of an oncoming tunnel. Keith groans. With the new, even more limited space there is very little he can do to get around a hovercar and a speeder. Unless…

Everything goes black as the group of racers plunge into the long tunnel. Keith runs a hand over the addition Pidge added to his bike, thumbing over the switch. The walls of the tunnel are curved, a sturdy semi-circle of tan brick above him. There are walkways alongside the road that are pretty much abandoned, with most of the people in town at the tournament grounds watching the race. Keith gets an idea.

The curb separating the walkways from the road is just high enough that Keith has to jump it, standing up on his bike and bending his knees, pulling up as hard as he can. It’s criminally easy after that to speed down the narrow sidewalk, only occasionally skidding along the brick walls with his bike (sorry, Pidge. He really does love the paint job). With the path clear before him, he picks up speed, dashing passed the two hovercars that have yet to relinquish their lead, smirking when he hears their engines revving as they speed up to match him.

Unfortunately, even with its new upgrades and paint job, Keith’s bike isn’t as fast as the fancy shmancy hovercars. Soon enough, the three of them are neck and neck, and Keith is in danger of falling behind again. A quick look back shows that the asshole that had been tailgating Keith is trying to get up on the walkway as well, so Keith’s window of opportunity to really get ahead is closing fast.

Keith faces forward, toward the bright light shining at the end of the tunnel, and takes a deep breath. “Right,” he mutters to himself, running his thumb over the switch at the center of his handlebars. He hears Pidge’s voice in his head.

_“Rocket boost.”_

The three vehicles in the lead burst out of the tunnel and into the sunlight, and Keith flicks the switch.

There’s a loud _BANG_ and Keith barely manages to keep hold of the handlebars as the bike shoots forward. The front end of his bike lifts up, and he scrambles to lean forward and keep the bike steady. His surroundings are a blur, the other competitors no longer an issue as Keith puts all his focus into not crashing in a fiery burst. The bike starts to shake violently between his legs, and when he clamps them down on it the metal is burning hot.

“ _H-h-ho-l-l-l-ly sh-sh-sh-shit_ ,” Keith gasps out. The back of the bike skids from side to side, and it takes all of Keith’s strength to keep it going straight. He can see the walls of the palace and concurrently the finish line for the race, and Keith can’t help but smile, even though it feels like his teeth are rattling in his head.

His triumph is short-lived, however, with the emergence of something coming quickly from behind, and the black hovercar comes barreling towards him. He curses and swerves, barely avoiding having the back of his bike be hit by the car. It comes up next to him, and he chances a glance at the driver.

He’s Galran, looking very smug and relaxed in the safety of his obviously very state of the art car. He looks over at Keith with a fang-toothed smile and winks. Keith for the second time that day makes the decision to hate someone on sight.

He makes a point of looking forward and away, hunching down over his handlebars. He can see the finish line now, the entrance to the palace’s tournament grounds. The stands surrounding it are full of people loudly cheering and waving flags.

If he were capable of thinking of anything beyond the constant, instinctual mantra of “ _faster, faster, faster_ ,” beyond the burning of the metal against his knees, the ache of his fingers around the throttle, the heartbeat in his ears, Keith would be thinking that everything up until now has led to this. All of the pain and loneliness and back-breaking work brought him here, now, with the wind in his ears. This was just one step towards where he’s meant to be, what he’s meant to be doing, and he took it. If Keith could think, he’d think just doing this was a win of its own, that if he rolled his bike and broke every bone in his body, at least it would have happened on his own terms, on his own bike, flying. But Keith can’t think, he can only react.

He charges through the finish line, bike kicking up the soft dirt of the tournament grounds as he skids sideways to a stop. White dots spark in his vision from the flashbulbs of the camera drones all around him. The hoverbike lurches to one side with the force of his stop, before dropping heavily back down. Keith exhales, and the roar of the crowd around him lands on his shoulders like a physical weight.

Giant, floating screens all around the arena display several shots of Keith at various angles, curled over his handlebars, the dark purple of his armor a blur, with the Galran hovercar right next to him. Keith sits down heavily onto the bike seat, fingers cramping as he forces them away from the handlebars. In the pictures, the front of Keith’s bike juts out about six inches in front of the hovercar.

The display changes to a live feed, showing Keith sitting dumbfounded on his bike. "WINNER" scrolls across the bottom of the image in big red letters.

  
" _Fuck_ ," Keith says, with feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOAAAAAHHH THE CROWD GOES WILD
> 
> y'all didnt think i was gonna let him LOSE right this is mY SELF INDULGENT FANTASY AU
> 
> come bother me on [tumblr](http://www.wizzardblizzard.tumblr.com) or [twitter.](https://twitter.com/usernicole)
> 
> #2fast2furious


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turns back to Keith, and then gestures at the microphone, eyebrows raising. 
> 
> The crowd is silent, and Keith clears his throat. He leans forward into the prince’s space to reach the microphone, mind racing. He looks out at the crowd of nameless faces, at the various screens that show him hovering in front of the microphone, ready to shit his pants. All he has to do is think of a name, any name. He has forgotten every name. He’s forgotten his actual name, and the names of everyone he’s ever met in his life. 
> 
> He says: “Mert.”
> 
> The crowd remains silent, aside from a distant peal of laughter. It sounds like Pidge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones MEATY
> 
> SHOUTOUT TO: the group chat, who were always around if i needed to decide on something stupid (peepee room ride or die), my very boring job, whatever comes up when you search "king arthur crown" bc the aesthetic of this au changes by the minute, that one website that i spent exactly 15 seconds on that tried to give me archery tips but started talking about killing animals until i got bummed and closed out of it, my very favorite show the terror for telling me what an epaulet is, jared harris, specifically blair who gave me a cheese detail, whoever that person is who's making screencap edits of klance on a date?? that shits great, scalloped potatoes, and all of you lovely people who are reading this and commenting!!! i've never had an actually active wip and its fun
> 
> also shoutout to mert from my screenwriting class, who never stayed for a full class period and ignored me that one time when i smiled and waved at him on campus
> 
> actually no fuck you

“Who  _ are  _ they?” 

The phrase is echoed threefold, as the Queen, Lance, and Hunk all enter the royal tent at the same time. The Queen looks quietly outraged, with a herd of attendants following her in a flurry. They go about setting up a spattering of floating screens and speakers around the plushly furnished and elaborately decorated tent, all displaying the masked rider at various angles. Hunk is waving his tablet around wildly with one hand and tugging at his hair with the other. Lance, with a wide, devious smile on his face, only sits down on an armchair, folding his arms.

“Your Highness, we are not able to identify--”

“Whoever it is, they very nearly destroyed an  _ entire _ crop of juniberries,” the Queen huffs. Her tone is frustrated, but outwardly she is the pinnacle of elegance. She sits primly in the armchair across from Lance and holds out a hand. An attendant is quick to place a tablet in it.

“That’s against the rules, right?” Hunk says. “I mean, we never  _ said _ it was, but it has to be against the rules!”

“Of course it--”

“I think we should allow it.”

The Queen and Hunk look sharply at Lance, simultaneously. His only response is a widening of his already shit-eating grin and a smooth shrug of his shoulders. “What? It’s my tournament. Hunk’s right, we never  _ said _ they couldn’t go off of the path.”

“It was pretty dangerous, though,” Hunk says. “We  _ did  _ tell them not to take any unnecessary risks. People could have gotten hurt!”   
  
“The whole thing was dangerous, really,” Lance says. “And it was always unbalanced in favor of the nobles. As far as I’m concerned the masked rider is owed a few handicaps. Either way, they won, fair and square.”

The Queen hums, scrolling through footage of the race on her tablet. “I don’t like it,” she says, “and they  _ will _ be reprimanded for the destruction of my crops, but, as you said, it’s your tournament.” She holds out the tablet, and an attendant takes it from her. Lance drops his self-confident act then, sitting upright and beaming at her.    
  
“Really?” he says, voice cracking. He pulls himself together. “I mean,  _ obviously _ . They showed everyone up out there. Did you  _ see  _ Lotor’s--”   
  
“Dear, aren’t you supposed to be out there announcing the winners?” the Queen interrupts, reaching over to pat Lance’s knee. 

“What? Oh, right,” Lance says, standing quickly only to stop in his tracks. He turns to Hunk, and then back to his mother, and then looks helplessly at an attendant. “I, uh…” He fiddles with his sash, and then his crooked crown, and then the tassels on his shoulders. “Do I look okay?”   
  


The attendant poorly hides his snort behind a tablet.

Hunk takes pity on him, grabbing Lance by the shoulders and walking him towards the exit. “Come on, your highness,” he says, sighing. “You look fine.”

“Are you just saying that? Or are you just trying to get me to go out there faster?”

“You know the answer to that,” Hunk says. The two of them step out into the sunshine, Hunk still marching Lance towards the arena where the crowd awaits. “I can’t believe you’re like this for a person you’ve never even seen the face of.”

“Like  _ what?” _ Lance squawks. “I’m not like anything! I want to look good for the  _ public,  _ Hunk. For the citizens of my beloved kingdom!”

“Sure you do,” Hunk says. 

“It wouldn’t be appropriate, going out there looking like some...like some kind of  _ ragamuffin.” _

“‘Ragamuffin,’ sir?”

“Like a ragamuffin,” Lance affirms. “And Red--I mean, the masked rider  _ is _ one of those citizens.”

Another wooden platform has been set up on the soft dirt of the arena, and Lance can see the top four contestants in the race standing in a line at the center of it with a podium off to the side. The audience is still celebrating, waving multi-colored flags and cheering. On the platform, Lotor looks completely disinterested in the proceedings around him, though there’s a displeased set to his mouth. James Griffin is absolutely pissed, with his arms crossed and everything. Allura looks to be chatting with Red, who is fidgeting nervously. Every so often, they look away from her and out to the crowd, and then down at their feet.

They seem so normal, standing up there, whereas before they’d been larger than life. They had defied gravity out there, beat all of the odds and sped through all of Lance’s expectations for how this day would go. Up on that platform, they look shorter than Lance had thought, and nervous, and completely like a real person that Lance would actually have to have a conversation with.

Lance stops at the bottom of the stairs that would lead up to the platform, heels digging into the sand. “Actually,” he says, gulping. “I can’t do this. Maybe I can sit this one out?  _ You _ can give them the medals.” Hunk huffs and spins him around, giving him a hard look before dragging him behind the platform.

“ _ Lance, _ ” he says, once they’re out of view of the audience.

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Lance whines. 

“You’re being weird.”

“This is a weird situation!”

Hunk begins fussing with Lance’s outfit, adjusting his sash and epaulettes, making sure all of the gold tassels lie straight. “I’m never going to understand you,” Hunk says. “You spend half of your time flirting with whoever will listen, and whoever won’t listen, and now you have a group of people here who want to get to know you, and you clam up?”   
  


“Allura and Lotor are  _ not _ here for me,” Lance huffs. “And the Griffin boy seems like an asshole.”

“And you don’t know  _ anything _ about the masked rider!” Hunk throws his arms up. “Other than that he makes questionable life decisions and is  _ here for you. _ Now is not the time to be nervous. Now is the time to shoot your shot.”

“If anything,” Lance says, “now is  _ not _ the time to shoot my shot, because this isn’t like...a ball! Or me running into someone cute in town! This is me, meeting someone who potentially likes me, in front of the entire kingdom! On  _ stage _ .” Lance pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes. “This whole tournament is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, Hunk.”

“It only is because you’re letting it be,” Hunk says. He reaches up and straightens Lance’s crooked crown, settling it on his head and making sure his hair is smooth. “You have to stop thinking of it as like, some kind of event designed to humiliate you and think of it as what it is: a big stupid game. This isn’t like you, man.” 

Lance sighs. “I know. I  _ know _ I’m being dramatic, I just hate feeling like this, like I’m some kind of...spectacle. You’re right though. I’ll try to let it go.”

“All I ask is you try,” Hunk says. “Now, can we get up there, already? The sooner we leave here, the sooner we can get to doing  _ actual _ fun stuff.”

“Fine,” Lance says. “Do I look okay?”

“Buddy, you look great,” Hunk says. “Now  _ let’s go _ .”

Lance sighs again and gestures for Hunk to move forward, hoping the knot in his stomach is excitement and not nausea. 

***

“Is this, uh, gonna end soon?” Keith asks. 

Allura blinks at him curiously, and Keith wonders if that was a rude thing to ask. “I mean, not that talking to you isn’t...It’s just that we've been up here a long time and…” He gestures to the rowdy crowd before them. “You know?”

She smiles kindly at him. Of all the other three competitors, she’s the only one Keith has decided is not a complete asshole. “I know what you mean,” Allura says. “These things can feel quite tedious. I’m sure it will be over soon.”

Keith looks out at the crowd again, away from Allura’s eyes. He’s not used to speaking so casually with a noble, even knowing there’s no way she could possibly know who he is. He can tell she wants to know, though. He can see it in the look in her eyes, and hear it in her politely probing questions. Keith scans the crowd, looking for any sign of Matt or Pidge, but the amount of faces in the stands is overwhelming. He’s not sure where they herded the remaining competitors in the race, though he had seen Shiro come through the finish line. They’d only been able to wave at each other, before Keith was herded away by royal attendants who had gently scolded him for ruining a field of juniberries.

“Oh, well speaking of,” Allura says. He looks back to her, and she nods towards the side of the stage. Keith turns to look, and then turns to look straight forward, spine stiffening.

The prince is climbing the stairs. 

Keith would have liked to think that seeing Prince Lance up close would dissolve whatever weird feeling that had come over him earlier, that the mixture of adrenaline and worry and poor sleep had made him react weirdly, but that’s not the case. The prince looks immaculate and handsome and... _ shiny _ . The bright sunlight seems to envelope him, accentuating the gold detail in his outfit and his brown skin. Keith can’t even look at him directly. He’s suddenly aware of so many things, like how sweaty he is and whether he’s standing weird and how loud his breathing is? It’s like, really loud, right? He tries to look at Allura to gauge how loud it is. 

The prince falters when he reaches the top of the stairs, stumbling slightly, but his advisor is quick to follow and steady him. He gives the four of them a little wave--Keith notices that Allura rolls her eyes at this--before stepping quickly up to the podium. 

"Well wasn't that exciting?" the prince says, to raucous cheers. Keith wonders how much cheering this crowd is capable of. "I'm not gonna lie, I was on the edge of my seat. Give it up for all our amazing competitors!" He steps back and claps as the crowd applauds, raising his eyebrows at Keith and the other winners. The other three bow and wave at the crowd, while Keith just kind of fidgets. The prince steps back up to the podium just as the attention becomes unbearable. "And I  _ don't  _ mean just the winners, but also the other drivers who did their best out there, who I'm happy to say all survived! With minimal injuries. You, uh, can't ask for anything better than that." He leans away from the mic and tugs at his high collar.  "I want to give my sincere thanks to everyone who participated today. But anyway!"

He makes grabby hands to his side, and Hunk is quick to hand over an ornate wooden box. Keith hears Lance ask, "Where were you even keeping that?" before Hunk not-so-discreetly shoves the prince back up to the podium. Lance sets the box on top and opens it as a drone flies down to circle its contents. The sunlight glintsoff of a set of four medals, punishingly bright . Moments later, the feed from the drone appears on all of the floating screens around the arena. The crowd oohs and ahhs appropriately. 

"It is now time to honor our victors!" Lance says, leaning over the box to reach the microphone. "In recognition of your outstanding performances, I would like to award each of you with a medal, beginning with, uh--"

Hunk slides a small scroll towards Lance.

"Right," Lance says, unfurling it. "Beginning with Master James Griffin of the Arus Griffins, who finished in fourth place!"

Keith rolls his eyes as James stomps past, with his spine straight and chin held high. It takes everything in him not to trip the guy. The prince goes through the others pretty quickly after that, wagging his eyebrows cheekily at Allura and stiffly shaking the hand of the Galra guy ( _ Prince Lotor _ is his name, and Keith and Allura share a long-suffering look as he steps up to accept his medal). 

“And finally,” Prince Lance begins. “Having accomplished this feat through rather daring and, um, unconventional methods, it’s my pleasure to award the first prize gold medal to…” He trails off, looking at the scroll. Then, he looks over to Hunk, who shrugs.

“Oh  _ shit _ ,” Keith breathes. Allura gives him a concerned look, but Keith ignores her. In all of the excitement and anxiety, neither Keith nor Pidge had thought of what the hell he was going to do when someone asked him  _ his damn name _ . The leaderboards on all of the screens had listed him only as “the Masked Rider.”

“Right,” Lance says, before darting over to Keith from behind the podium. He holds out his hand for Keith to shake, and Keith has to fight the urge to shy away. He says quickly, “I’m sorry, it was terribly rude of me to not greet you before now. I’m Lance.”

Keith shakes his hand awkwardly. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

The prince smiles widely at him, and Keith feels that overwhelming  _ “oh shit” _ feeling that swoops in his stomach again. “Now, if you’ll come with me,” Lance says, pulling Keith forward towards the podium.

Keith walks stiffly, like his knees don’t bend, and Lance ushers him gently with a hand on Keith’s back. “You were fucking  _ amazing _ out there, by the way,” the prince says to him, voice hushed. “The thing with the juniberries? Fantastic.”

“Um, thanks,” Keith says. The prince just pats him on the back, and steps up to the microphone once again.

“As I was saying,” he announces, “in honor of the awesome display of skill shown by this…” The prince leans away from the podium. “Sorry, what are your pronouns?”

“Oh, uh, he/him,” Keith says. “I’m a guy.”

“Cool, thanks.” He moves back to the microphone. “...by this man, it is my pleasure to award the first prize gold medal to…” He turns back to Keith, and then gestures at the microphone, eyebrows raising. 

The crowd is silent, and Keith clears his throat. He leans forward into the prince’s space to reach the microphone, mind racing. He looks out at the crowd of nameless faces, at the various screens that show him hovering in front of the microphone, ready to shit his pants. All he has to do is think of a name, any name. He has forgotten every name. He’s forgotten his actual name, and the names of everyone he’s ever met in his life. 

He says: “Mert.”

The crowd remains silent, aside from a distant peal of laughter. It sounds like Pidge.

“...Mert,” the prince says, stepping up to the microphone. “Okay! Is that...short for anything?”

“Nope,” Keith says, leaning into it. “Just Mert.”

“Right,” Lance replies. “And, where are you from, Mert?”

Keith looks at him, eyebrows raising behind his mask. “Just outside of town?” he says.

The prince gives him a confused look. Behind him, Hunk badly hides a snort in his fist.

“To Mert, of Just Outside of Town!” Lance says to the microphone, raising the gold medal in the air. The crowd goes wild, and Keith lets Lance delicately place the medal over his head. It clinks against the purple armor, and Keith stares down at it.

The glittering number one shines up at him, and he reaches up to grab at it, hiding it behind his dark gloves. He has three things now, he thinks. Just one step closer to having  _ everything _ .

He steps back, falling in line next to Allura again. She nudges him with her elbow. “Congratulations!” she whispers, and he nods at her. 

“I’d like to thank all of you again for coming out,” the prince says. “This has been a very exciting day, and it’s only going to get more exciting! For tomorrow, I’m happy to announce, will be our second event. This one’s near and dear to my heart, as it was my personal choice. Tomorrow, our four champions will be competing in a shooting contest!”

At this, several confetti cannons shoot out at the side of the stage. The screens all display a graphic of a bow and arrow. The crowd is standing again, and the prince laughs over their cheers. Keith stares up at the falling confetti and feels his heart sink to the ground alongside it. A shooting contest? 

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but he’s far less likely to succeed at a shooting contest than a race. He feels his mood dampen as the prince continues his announcements, saying something about a festival in town in honor of the tournament, and when everyone should show up the following day for the second event. Allura tries to get his attention, but at this point Keith is just ready to get off of the stage and away from everyone.

Finally, it seems that the prince’s speech is coming to an end, and people start spilling out of the stands and out of the arena. Hunk steps up to the four of them then, waving cheerily. 

“Congratulations, guys!” he says. “Just a reminder that the archery range will be set up here, and you all are to arrive first thing in the morning. Don’t worry about bringing any supplies, everything will be provided.” He goes on after that, but Keith doesn’t pay attention. He has a day to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow. Less than that, even.

Hunk dismisses them, and Keith makes to follow, but he’s stopped by a hand on his wrist. Caught off guard, Keith whips around and freezes. “Um,” he says.

The prince smiles sheepishly at him, letting go of Keith’s arm. “Hey.” He waves awkwardly, and then something over Keith’s shoulder catches his eye, and his face drops into a glare. Keith looks back over his shoulder to see Hunk quickly turn on one heel, marching down the stairs to the side of the stage and whistling.

“Sorry about that,” Lance says. He shifts from one foot to the other. “I just wanted to, uh, tell you--or, uh, ask, I guess--”

He doesn’t continue, but he sets his shoulders and pushes one hand into his hair to smooth it back. Keith thinks he’s trying to look suave, but all it does is dislodge his crown so it hangs crooked on his head. 

“What is it?” Keith asks.

“There’s a banquet,” Lance says quickly, dropping his hand. “Tonight. It’s really like a, welcoming thing for the visiting nobles? But I figured, since you were the champion and all, it would be fine if you, uh, wanted to make an appearance?” He makes to lean casually against the podium, but it wobbles under his weight. He stands back up. “There will be food?” he continues, voice cracking.

Keith’s eyes narrow behind his mask. “It’s for nobles, you say?” 

Lance shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Pretty much everyone’s come out for the tournament so they’ll all be there. I’m sure no one will mind if you--”

“I can’t,” Keith says. “Sorry.”

The prince’s shoulders slouch, and Keith feels suddenly awful. “Oh, okay,” Lance says. “That’s...okay. I just thought I’d offer--”

“I’d like to!” Keith interrupts, loudly. “Like, really, I just. I don’t think--”

“No, no, you’re fine, you’re totally--”

“I just, I don’t know anything about archery, and I thought I should, uh, try to practice?” Keith’s voice squeaks, and he winces. “Like, I’m sure there’s somewhere in town--I’m kind of limited on time, here, so…”

Keith turns and points to the stairs, taking a step towards exiting. His face feels hot, and he’s grateful for the knowledge that the prince can’t see how hard he’s blushing.

“Wait!” the prince says. Keith pauses, closing his eyes and wishing for anything,  _ anything at all _ to end this awkward conversation. He turns back to the prince, who looks suddenly excited. 

“What?” Keith asks. 

“Would you…” The prince pauses, biting his lip down on a grin. “What would you say if I told you I knew someone who could help you out?”

***

The day, after its eventful morning, drags  _ on and on _ .

After his talk with Red (or...Mert), Lance lets Hunk drag him through the rest of the day’s obligations. He suffers through outfit changes and menu approvals and stuffy afternoon tea with the castle’s current visitors. Every minute of it feels like torture, but he endures it without complaint because later on that night, he’s going to teach Red how to shoot a bow and arrow.

Hunk keeps a wary eye on him the entire day, seemingly disturbed by his lack of whining. Lance would be offended if he weren’t on a completely different plane of existence. He has it all planned out, down to the last detail. 

_ Red turns to fully face Lance, crossing his arms. Lance can’t see his face, but he imagines he looks skeptical _

_ “Who?” Red asks.  _

_ “I can’t disclose that at this moment,” Lance says, crossing his own arms and tilting his nose up. “But they’re amazing and they can help you learn.” _

_ Red doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and Lance can feel Red’s eyes assessing him, even though he can’t see them. “They’re good?” _

_ “The  _ best,” _ Lance says. “I promise, you’ll see.” He hesitates. “I mean, it will have to be later, because they’re probably going to be really busy, but I’m sure I can arrange--” _

_ “You’re sure  _ every _ noble will be at that banquet tonight?” Red interrupts. _

_ Lance huffs. “Yes,” he says, slightly annoyed that Red is asking again. “They had to RSVP and everything.”  _

_ “Okay. Do you think I could meet with them during the banquet, then?” _

Hunk shoves a tablet into Lance’s face. 

“What the fuck?” Lance hisses, barely stopping himself from walking straight into it.

“What are you planning?” Hunk steps in front of him, crossing his arms. They’re in some random hallway in the palace, on their way to whatever their next scheduled event is. 

“What? I’m not planning anything!”

“Nope,” Hunk says. “I know you better than that. You’re making that face.”

Lance’s mouth drops open, offended. “What face?”

“Your ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ face.”

“I don’t  _ have  _ an ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ face,” Lance snaps. He sidesteps Hunk and continues down the hall. “I have a handsome face, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

When Hunk doesn’t follow him, Lance sighs and turns around. His friend is standing obstinately in the center of the hallway, arms still crossed. “I’m not planning anything,” Lance lies.

“Does this have to do with Mert?”

Lance sputters. “What? No! Of course not!” He throws his arms out to the side. “Pfft. No. Obviously. What are you talking about?”   
  
“I thought you said he couldn’t come to the banquet,” Hunk continues. “Though, to be honest, I wish you would have told me you were inviting him to the banquet. There are protocols--”   
  


“He can’t!” Lance interrupts. “He has, uh, other things to do. And this has nothing to do with that!”

The advisor continues to look suspicious. “With what? I thought there wasn’t anything?”

“There isn’t!”

Hunk sighs, walking forward and placing his hands on Lance’s shoulders. “Look, just tell me what’s going on so I can make sure you’re not going to get yourself in trouble. Or worse, get  _ me  _ in trouble.”

Lance bristles, but quickly slumps, looking to the side. “It’s not anything  _ bad _ ,” he says.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“And it’s not like...okay maybe it has a  _ little _ to do with Red, I mean Mert--”

“Red?” Hunk makes a face. “Whatever. Just tell me what it is.”

“It’s better than Mert!” Lance says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to meet up with him later.”

“ _ WHAT--” _

Lance shushes him loudly, placing his hands on Hunk’s face in order to muffle him. “Shut up! I just told you--”

“When are you going to meet up with him?  _ Why _ are you going to meet up with him?” Hunk says, pulling Lance’s hands away from his mouth. “This isn’t what I meant when I said to shoot your shot!”

“Look, he needs some help with, um some stuff--”

“Help with--you can’t just go off--” Hunk slaps Lance’s hands away from where they resume their attempts to muffle his voice. “Lance you can’t just--”

“He’s never shot a bow and arrow before!” Lance hisses. “He told me. That’s why he can’t come to the banquet, he wanted to get some practice in--”

“So you told him, what? That you would give him a private lesson? Did you forget you have to  _ be _ at that banquet?” Hunk pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “How were you expecting to pull this off?”

“Um,” Lance says. “Well, I was going to go to the banquet, and then--”

“Were you going to pretend to get sick again?” Hunk says. “Lance, come on.”

“Well, it works, doesn’t it?” Lance says petulantly.

“No! It doesn’t! You overdo it, every time!” He presses his palms together in front of his chest. “Lance, I swear to god if you piss off the cooks again--”

“Why are you so scared of the cooks?” Lance says. “I don’t get why they get so mad anyway.”

“I am scared of them because they  _ feed us _ . And every time you want to get out of a banquet or ball or royal dinner you keel over and gag and tell everyone that the food has poisoned you, and you’re a bad actor so it  _ never  _ works. Everyone knows you’re just skiving off!”   
  
“Maybe so,” Lance says, “but they don’t  _ say  _ anything because of the off chance I’m actually puking my guts out, and it would be awkward. That’s why it always works! They’re too proper to actually say anything!” 

“You know who’s not too proper to say anything? The Queen! To me, specifically!” Hunk places his hands on Lance’s shoulders and shakes him once. “Please don’t make the Queen mad at me, I can’t take it.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have nothing to do with it,” Lance says. “Unless…”

“No! I will have no part in this!” Hunk drops his hands and walks around Lance and down the hall. “I wash my hands of you. What’s the good of having an advisor if the advisee  _ never listens _ \--”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Lance says, throwing his arms up and following Hunk. “Shouldn’t you be praising me? I’m making an  _ effort _ to spend time with a  _ potential suitor _ .”

“I  _ wanted  _ you to invite him to an important royal event, where there will be security measures! Instead, you decided to arrange a meeting without a chaperone or any guards,  _ during _ said important royal event!” Hunk says. “How very proper of you.”

“Who cares about that stuff?” Lance catches up to Hunk, walking sideways beside him. “He’s not even noble!”   
  


“We don’t know anything about him,” Hunk says. “For all we know, he could be some...assassin! Maybe he plans to get you alone to  _ murder _ you.”

“If this were...Lotor or, or Ryan Kinkade or something you would be helping me,” Lance accuses. “There was a reason I decided to open the tournament up to the public, Hunk.”

“First of all, I wouldn’t help you get anywhere  _ near _ Lotor,” Hunk says, “because that would mean  _ I’d _ have to spend an extended amount of time with Lotor. Second of all this isn’t about him not being noble. I mean,  _ hello!”  _ He points at himself demonstratively. “This is about how sketchy the guy is. Not showing his face, not telling us where he’s from, giving us only one, very weird name--”

“He has his reasons!” Lance says, though he doesn’t really know what those reasons could be. “I’m sure he does.”

“What if those reasons are ‘Getting the Prince Alone to Assassinate Him’?” Hunk says.

“They’re not,” Lance says. “He just wants some help with archery, Hunk. Who better to help him than me?”

“Um, the Queen’s head archer?”

“I’m the  _ best _ , Hunk,” Lance continues, ignoring him. “You know I am, everyone knows I am, except for this  _ really cool guy _ who I really want to impress so can you  _ please  _ just support me.”

Hunk stops walking and looks at Lance, who gives him his best pleading expression. “Lance…”

“ _ Hunk _ .”

Hunk throws his head back and groans. “Will you at least take someone with you?”

Lance makes a face. “No, dude, way to kill a mood.”

“It’s archery practice, not a candlelit dinner,” Hunk argues. “Anyway, isn’t this like, cheating? You’re bias is showing.”

Lance shrugs. “The way I figure it, the other three competitors have probably had some sort of training in shooting, it’s like, required. It wasn’t for Mert, so this is another handicap, in a way. Like when he went through the fields.”

“I still wouldn’t consider that a handicap.”

“And so  _ what _ if I show favoritism?” Lance says. “This is the rest of my life, we’re talking about. You should be encouraging me for showing interest.”

Hunk sighs. “I just think there’s a better way of going about it,” he says. “But whatever. I’m not going to say I’m helping you because I need to maintain plausible deniability, but if you can manage to sneak away from the banquet  _ without  _ pretending you’re about to barf all over the Queen’s very important guests--”

“ _ My _ very important guests.”

“Then I’m not going to stop you,” Hunk finishes. “Just...be careful, okay? You’re literally sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet a masked stranger and teaching him how to use a weapon.”

“It’ll be  _ fine _ ,” Lance says, throwing one arm over Hunk’s shoulder. “I’ve got a feeling.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

***

It takes quite a bit of finagling to get Keith to the royal training grounds for his last minute archery lessons, but he manages it.

He’s lucky that the kingdom is in such a frenzy over the day’s events. It’s been declared an unofficial holiday, with the town throwing parties in the streets and holding their own games and tournaments. He’d quickly found Pidge and Matt after the race, waiting by his bike and practically radiating excitement. “Hey, Mert!” Matt called.

Keith gave him a hard look.

“You used the fucking rocket boost!” Pidge yelled then, throwing her arms around Keith’s stomach. “You’re fucking crazy!”

“You told me it was okay!” Keith said. “Was it...Pidge what did you think would happen?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Pidge had said, leaning back and tugging on Keith’s medal. 

“Congratulations, dude!” Matt said after that, patting him on the back. “You were amazing out there. Now, should we maybe get you back home? Because, uh…” He pointed at a small tablet in his hand.

“Oh shit,” Keith said, grabbing for it and looking at the screen. Displayed was a map of the kingdom, with a small red dot blinking periodically. Keith watched as it vanished, and then reappeared further away. “You actually managed to plant the tracker?”

“Of course I did,” Pidge said, offended. “I snuck up behind him and chucked it in his drink. What do you take me for?”

“Um, someone who isn’t supposed to be able to access that part of the arena?” Keith said. He watched the dot disappear and reappear again. “Oh fuck, do you think Sendak’s on his way--”

“Yup, back to the manor,” Matt said. “You gotta get going.” 

“Right,” Keith said. He grabbed his medal and pulled it off, before placing it over Pidge’s head. “I gotta get going.”

“Wait, Keith,” Pidge trailed off, grabbing the medal with one hand. “I can’t--”

“Take care of it for me,” Keith said. “If he finds it, it’s all over.” He hopped onto his bike, starting it up. It only took one try, and he ran one hand over the cherry red paint. Looking over at his two friends, Keith said, “Listen, I really can’t thank you enough for all of this. If you guys hadn’t--”

“Don’t get all sentimental now,” Pidge said, still gripping the medal. “Save it for when you win the whole thing. I’ll take care of this for you. Now  _ go _ .”

Keith nodded, and peeled out. It was a close thing, but with the bike’s upgrades he had managed to beat Sendak and Haxus to the manor, hide his bike in the dense woods behind the property, change, and look as though he was busy taking care of the household by the time they got back. Upon their arrival, Sendak had looked at him suspiciously, before simply saying, “It’s good you managed to take care of that nasty scratch on your face. It was unseemly.” and departing into his study.

Keith had spent the rest of the day going about his normal chores and doing everything he could to try and hide the huge balloon of pride-adrenaline-relief that was steadily expanding in his chest. He had pulled it off. He had actually managed to participate in the tournament, and he had  _ won _ . All without Sendak or Haxus knowing. After ten years of being told he was worth nothing and would never amount to anything, Keith had managed to go out there and pull ahead of all of those people who were born in higher circumstances. It had ignited something in him, like an itch under his skin, just one step closer to leaving this hellhole for good.

By the time a carriage arrives to take Sendak (and, subsequently, Haxus) back to the palace for the banquet, Keith feels ready to explode with nerves. He’s banking on the prince’s tutor being amazing, because he’s wasted the entire day cleaning floors and doing laundry. He watches the red dot of the tracker on Matt’s tablet move further and further away from the manor, and then bursts into action.

_ “They will probably be late,”  _ the prince had said, back on that stage what feels like ages ago, hashing out the plan for Keith’s lesson.  _ “They’re going to be a bit, uh, busy around that time. Just wait a while, and they’ll be there.” _

Keith leaves from the servant’s entrance at the back of the house, beelining towards the woods where he stashed his bike and armor. Dip comes running around the corner, as fast as his tiny legs can carry him, yipping at Keith. 

“Aw, no, bud,” Keith says, not slowing his stride. Dipshit catches up to him, nearly tripping him up. “You can’t come with me.”

Keith trudges through the woods until he comes upon the bike, brushing off some leaves that have fallen on top of it. Dipshit whines at him, small nose up in the air. Keith sighs.

“This is a secret,” he says, crouching so Dip can jump up and lick his face. “We have to be  _ stealthy _ . I’ll be back later tonight.” He rubs Dip’s ears, and then points back towards the house. “Go sleep in the barn. I’ll be back.”

Dip whines again, butt shaking with the force of his tail wagging. Keith can’t help but dart down to give him a quick kiss on the head. “Soon,” he says, “we won’t have to do any of this anymore. Me and you, we’re getting out of here. We’re going to have a better life.”

Then, he stands and changes into his armor, leaving his ratty clothes at the foot of a large tree. Dip dances around his feet until Keith starts nudging him away, until the dog moves far enough that it won’t hurt him to start the hoverbike.

He looks down at Dipshit’s big, trusting eyes and feels his determination reignite, kicking the bike into gear and speeding off into the night.

Keith keeps one eye on Matt’s tablet as he drives, making sure the path that Sendak is taking and his own are different. In the time it takes for him to reach the palace grounds, the sun has gone down, and the moon is bright in the sky. Keith cuts off the bike’s engine, looking around the training field nervously. He was invited, but it still doesn’t feel right for him to be there. The ground is soft sand, like the arena that morning had been, with an area to the side with several wooden dummies for sword fighting practice. In the distance, there is a field with archery targets spread evenly in a line. The training dummies look eerie in the darkness, but Keith does his best to ignore them, leaning casually against his bike and looking up at the sky. Someday soon, he could possibly be up there, as far away from his shitty life as he could possibly get. 

The tracker had indicated that Sendak was planted firmly inside of the palace a while ago, so Keith can only imagine that the party is going full swing by the time he hears shuffling footsteps approach him from behind. He whips around, knife in hand, and the approaching person raises their arms in surrender.

“Jesus,” Prince Lance says, emerging from the darkness. “That mask is fucking terrifying at night. Stand down, Red.”

Keith's curses, dropping his hand immediately and sheathing his knife. "Uh, your majesty," he says. "It would probably be best if you didn't...sneak up on people…" He shifts from one foot to the other. “Wait, what did you call--?”   
  
“It’s a nickname, Red. Catch up,” the prince says. It seems as though whatever nervousness he had felt that morning had disappeared with the sun, replaced with an almost obnoxious level of smug confidence. He walks further into the moonlight, and Keith can see that he’s got a large black duffle bag slung over one shoulder. It’s in total opposition to his outfit, a powder blue formal ensemble, with shiny buttons and intricate embroidery across the chest. He’s forgone the crown in favor of a delicate looking circlet, fit snugly around his head. The prince drops the bag to the ground, and Keith watches as the moonlight catches the silver lining of his cape. “Did you really think I was going to call you Mert?”

“I mean, it is polite to call people by their name,” Keith says, secretly unsure of why he would defend his ridiculous fake name. 

“ _ You  _ don’t call me Lance,” Lance replies, crouching down to dig through the bag. “I’ve never said anything.”

“You’re the…! You never said I could…” Keith crosses his arms. “Do you  _ want  _ me to call you Lance?”

“You can call me anything you want, Red,” Lance says, standing back up. He’s gotten dirt all over his shins and shiny boots, and Keith feels sudden sympathy for whoever has to do his laundry. “You could even call me yours.”

He presents a long, gleaming white bow to Keith, smiling widely. It looks extremely high tech, with very few visible seams in the metal. There is no string, which is slightly confusing. Keith completely ignores it in favor of giving the prince a disbelieving look.

“...What?” he says.

“Archery!” the prince continues, as though that last interaction had never happened. “You wanted a crash course, right?”

“Right,” Keith says, wary. “Is your guy going to be here soon?” He looks around, as though some anonymous archery expert is hiding in the darkness somewhere. “You didn’t have to come here personally, they're probably missing you at the banquet.”

“Um,” Lance says. He bounces on his toes, fingers wrapping around the bow and pulling it to his chest. “Well, about that. He already is here!” He spreads his arms, raising his shoulders in a shrug, as if to say “Ta-da?”

Keith stares at him. “Wait,” he says. “ _ You’re  _ the expert archer?”

“Surprise!” Lance says. “Bet you didn’t see that coming.”

Keith did not. “But,” he says, voice becoming slightly squeaky, “isn’t there like...a party? Going on right now? For  _ you?”  _ He waves his arms at the palace looming above them. “Don’t you have better things to be doing?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Red,” Lance says. “Why shouldn’t I go the extra mile for one of my beloved citizens?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Keith says.

“Oh, but I said I would!” Lance replies. “Now we’re wasting time here, I’ve got to get back at some point and I’m sure you don’t want to be out here all night. Both of us have an early morning.”

With that, he continues further into the training field, towards the distant targets. Keith makes a series of protesting sounds before following. “Can you even…” Keith starts. “Is this even allowed?”

“Don’t worry about what is or isn’t allowed. That’s my job.”

“Are you even  _ good?”  _ Keith continues.

Lance twirls around on one shiny-booted foot. “Am I  _ good?”  _ he asks. “Pfft. This guy. He asks if I’m--”

He cuts himself off, twisting around towards the target with the white bow in one hand. He presses the other hand to the bow and then pulls it back, as though pulling back an arrow, and a green beam of light manifests itself, jagged and flickering. He lets it go almost immediately, and the light shoots across the training field, landing smack in the middle of target. Where it hit, a series of green circles pulse out from the center, emphasizing the prince’s near perfect aim. 

“I’m the fucking  _ best _ ,” Lance says, still looking back towards the target. “Now, do you want to learn, or what?”

Keith nods dumbly, then continues following the prince through the field.

“Okay,” Lance says, once they’ve reached a point about thirty feet away from a target, crossing over from soft sand to a field of grass. The ground feels steadier under Keith’s feet. “This should be as far as the targets will be tomorrow for the tournament.” He narrows his eyes. “Visibility isn’t too great. Too bad Hunk was a big chickenshit, or we could have gotten him to turn on the lights in this joint.” He looks over at Keith. “ _ I  _ don’t have a problem, of course, but you’re still a newbie. Maybe you should take your mask off so you can see better.”

“Actually, uh, I think my mask has some night vision capability,” Keith says. “And it’s bright out. I think it’ll be okay.”

Lance looks slightly disappointed at that. “Oh, that’s good. Is that why you’re wearing the mask, then?”

Keith’s shoulders hunch, and he looks away from the prince nervously. “No, uh, I need it.”

Lance pouts, then shrugs. “I guess I’ll just have to see your handsome face some other time.”

Keith chokes on nothing. “What?” he says. “Just...How could you possibly know how handsome I may or may not be?”

“I know these sort of things, Red. You’ve got a vibe.”

“You’re full of shit,” Keith says.

Lance throws his head back and laughs. “Are you saying you’re not? Handsome, that is.”

“I’m not,” Keith says. “I’m horribly ugly. That’s why I need the mask.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.” He turns a bright smile to Keith, who in all of this confusion had temporarily forgotten that he’s seemingly developed a problem with the prince’s face that day. Keith looks away then, towards the target. “So are you going to show me how to shoot that thing, or what?”

“Right,” Lance says. “So first thing you need is the equipment.” With that, he drops the bow unceremoniously in Keith’s arms. Then, he pulls off a sleek white ring from his right pointer finger. “Are you right or left handed?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Keith says. 

“Well aren’t you special,” Lance continues. He makes a grabbing motion. Keith just looks at him. Then, he rolls his eyes and reaches down, grabbing Keith’s hand.

“Um,” Keith says, but before he can say anything else Lance is sliding the ring onto his pointer finger. 

“Don’t make it weird,” Lance says, stepping away. “You need it. Now, all you need to do is pull back, like you’re shooting a physical bow and arrow.” 

He makes the motions with his arms. Keith turns to face the target and does his best to imitate him. Nothing happens, there is no green light. 

“No, no, no,” Lance says, flapping his hands and stepping forward. “Your form is all wrong. You’ve really never shot a bow and arrow before? Not even an old school one?”

Keith grits his teeth. “Obviously not,” he says. 

Lance ignores his irritation, humming and circling Keith. “Do you mind if I…” He trails off, and simply steps into Keith’s space, using his hands to adjust Keith’s hips and arms. Keith tenses up. “Calm down,” Lance says. “I’m just trying to help. Your arm needs to be straighter, and your legs aren’t planted right.”

Keith does his best to relax and let Lance do what he wants, but with every soft touch he feels his heart jump up into his throat. This close, and Keith can see clearly how nice Lance’s eyes look in the moonlight, and that the two of them are almost exactly the same height. His shoulders are broad, and Keith finds himself fighting the urge to wrap his hands around them. Lance scolds him lightly, loosening the deathgrip Keith has on the bow.

After a few more adjustments he stands behind Keith, guiding his hand back to the bow. “Okay, give it a try now."

Keith gives him a skeptical look, then repeats the action of pulling an arrow. This time, a green beam of light emerges from the bow, just as it had before. It’s not as unsteady as Keith imagined it would be, but maybe that’s the appeal of using a digitized arrow. He looks back to see Lance beaming at him.

“Well?” he says. “Go on!”

Keith huffs, and then turns his focus back to the target. He closes one eye, and then the other, switching perspectives. He lets go, and the arrow shoots forward.

It misses the target by about five feet, flying over it and into the darkness, never to be seen again.

“Well,” Lance says again. Keith’s shoulders slump.

“Hey don’t be like that!” Lance comes up to stand beside him. “We’ve got time! You’ll get this.”

After that, Keith tries again, and again. He shoots so many times, he loses count. The arrow hits the target maybe 10% of the time, and never anywhere near the center. Keith can feel anger and tension build in his chest with every missed shot. His stance gets sloppier, the shots miss by wider margins. Lance’s tips and encouragement start coming slower and more carefully as Keith’s frustration becomes more obvious.

“None of this matters,” Keith says finally, tone bitter. He wants to throw the bow to the ground. “There’s no way I’m going to get good enough to win tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that,” Lance says. “This is literally the first time you’ve done this.”

“And tomorrow will be, what? The  _ hundredth _ time the others have?” Keith shakes his head, feeling confined within the mask. “Even if it’s not their specialty, they’re noble. They had to have  _ some _ training in this stuff.”

“Not necessarily,” Lance says, but his voice is timid. “I mean, for me it’s just...a hobby--”

“Yeah, well not everyone can afford to have such a...pointless hobby!” Keith says, throwing his arms out at the target. “Some of us were too busy learning  _ real  _ skills, actually working!”

“That’s...that’s not fair.” Lance winces, but he’s starting to look annoyed. “Look, I’m not saying--”

“Why did you even open this tournament to the public?” Keith interrupts. “If it was going to be so obviously rigged? It was rigged this morning and it’s going to be rigged tomorrow. I never even had a  _ chance!”  _

“I didn’t--”

“What did you think would happen? Is this all some kind of thing nobles do to humiliate peasants like me?”

Keith takes a step towards Lance, who takes a step back, flinching. The sight of it triggers something cold in Keith, stopping him in his tracks. He realizes that he’s holding a weapon, and they’re alone and he’s taking his anger and frustration out on a person in a way that’s scarily familiar. He recoils.

“Shit,” he says, dropping his face into his hands. He wishes he could deactivate the mask and let the night air cool him down. “I’m...I’m really sorry. Just. Why are you even helping me?”

Lance crosses his arms over his chest, looking away from Keith. “Apparently I like watching  _ peasants _ suffer,” he says.

“ _ Lan-- _ Your highness.”

Lance huffs, throwing his arms up in the air. “I don’t know, okay! You just...You don’t think this whole thing isn’t humiliating to  _ me _ as well? The royal council is basically offering me up as a prize, here!” He kicks at the grass then, and a few shredded blades fly up pathetically. “Poor baby Lance, last in the line of succession, can’t even find a partner on his own. You think I wanted any of this?” 

He’s pacing now, flailing his arms about angrily. Keith decides it’s probably better that he doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t!” Lance continues. “I had no part in this whole process. I didn’t even pick out what I’m  _ wearing  _ right now.” He spreads his silvery cape out like wings, before turning around and walking out into the field. “The only thing I got to choose was this event, and I didn’t even want to do that. I just thought…” He sighs, slouching, before falling backwards into the grass with his arms and legs spread. He looks up at the moon, mouth set in a thin line.

Keith shuffles back and forth on his feet, before walking over and dropping to sit next to the prince. He has to be getting grass stains all over his perfect blue clothes, but Keith doesn’t say anything. He crosses his legs. “You thought?”

“Earlier, when we were talking and you said you didn’t know how to shoot, I just figured,” Lance continues, not looking away from the sky. “If I was going to have to do this, I might as well...try and twist it in my favor? I could help you and...I don’t know...have  _ some  _ illusion of control over the outcome of this stupid tournament.”

They fall into silence, Lance looking up at the stars and Keith looking down at Lance. “Look, I  _ know _ I’m privileged,” Lance says, after a while. “I know what I am and I’m so, so grateful to have what I have, but it can feel...stifling, sometimes.” He turns his big, bright eyes onto Keith then. “You may not have riches or a title or a  _ palace _ but...at least you’re free, you know?”

“You’d be surprised,” Keith says softly, and Lance looks away. He clenches his hands in the grass below him, and the two of them go silent again. 

Keith pulls at the grass, looking down at his gloved hands. “Why me, though?” he asks, after a long moment.

“Why you what?”

Keith exhales harshly, looking back up at Lance. “Why choose to help me, of all the competitors? You must know the others.”

“I really only know Allura,” Lance says, wrinkling his nose. “And that ship has passed. I don’t want our parents getting any funny ideas about the two of us. I grew up with Lotor, but the  _ last _ thing I want is to be  _ anywhere _ alone with him. And the other guy just seems like an asshole.”

Keith snorts. “So what? I was the best of a bunch of shitty options?”

“Well,  _ yeah _ ,” Lance says, before squawking when Keith drops a handful of grass on his face. “ _ Hey.  _ Ugh, okay. So maybe I wanted to get to know you.”

Keith blinks behind his mask. “What?” he says. “Why?”

Lance’s eyes narrow at him. “Come on,” he says. “You can’t tell me you aren’t doing this on purpose.”

“Doing  _ what _ on purpose?”

Lance sits up, shredded grass raining down as he goes. “You know!” he says. He gestures at Keith. “The whole,  _ mysterious masked rider _ schtick! How are you going to come out like that and not expect people to be curious?”

Keith is stunned into silence, then he says, “What schtick?” He throws his arms out. “I don’t have a...a  _ schtick _ .”

“You totally do,” Lance says, counting on his fingers. “You show up last minute, don’t show your face, break all the rules,  _ give a fake name-- _ ”

“Mert  _ is  _ my name!”

Lance just gives him a look, and Keith can’t help but laugh, loudly. He can’t really remember the last time he laughed like this. “Okay,” he says, once he’s calmed down. “Maybe it’s not...my  _ full _ name--”

“Red, come on,” Lance says. “ _ Mert _ .”

“So it’s not my name,” Keith amends. “But it’s like the mask, I have a reason--”

“What reason could you possibly have to keep your identity secret for a bunch of stupid games?” Lance asks, incredulous.

“It’s a good reason.” Keith sits back on his hands, looking up above Lance’s head towards the moon. “One that I can’t really...elaborate on.”

“Oh, of  _ course _ .”

“I’m serious!” Keith laughs. “No one can know who I am. At least until I win.”

“Awfully confident, aren’t you?”

“No,” Keith says, sobering up. “There’s just no other option for me.” 

The look Lance gives him then is long and searching, and Keith finds himself looking down at the grass again, nervous under the prince’s gaze. Lance hums. “Somehow,” he says after a moment. “I’m getting the idea that you’re not here because you’re really jazzed at the idea of going on a date with me.”

Keith frowns behind his mask and shrugs.

Lance sighs. “Well, it’s not like I didn’t expect that sort of thing,” he says, turning away. “Either way, you have my attention. You’ll tell me who you are when you win, right?”

“Lance, it’s not--”

“I’ll help you,” Lance interrupts. “And then, when you win, you’ll tell me everything.” 

Keith closes his mouth and nods. With that, Lance pulls himself to his feet, groaning as he goes. “Ugh, that grass killed my back,” he says. “We probably should get back to practicing.” 

“What,” Keith says. “Are you too used to feather mattresses and silk sheets?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Lance says. He kicks at Keith’s leg. “Now get up, we have work to do. I want to know what name you could possibly have that’s so horrible you decided to go with  _ Mert _ .”

“I can’t believe you,” Keith says. “Wait until everyone finds out what an ass the prince is to his loyal subjects.”

“Oh, so you’re loyal now? To who, exactly?”

  
  


Together, they manage to get Keith competent enough at shooting that he at least hits the target most of the time. It's nowhere near where Keith would like to be going into the tournament the next day, but he can't help but feel a bubble of pride in his chest whenever Lance cheers at another decent shot. Eventually, something beeps in Lance's pocket, and he jumps.

"Oh, shit," he says.

"Nice language, your highness," Keith drawls sarcastically.

"Shut up," Lance says. He pulls out a small tablet, and Keith jolts, remembering his own tablet stashed away in his armor. "The banquet is ending soon, I gotta go."

Keith pulls Matt's tablet from his pocket, slumping in relief when he sees Sendak is still at the palace. "Uh, yeah," he says. "Me too."

"Well," Lance says, putting his hands together. "Just remember, there's nothing you can do really to improve your aim, only your stance, so--"

"I know, I know," Keith sighs. "Keep my arm straight, feet planted, yadda yadda."

The two of them start walking back towards Keith's bike, laughing and bickering as they go. Despite the high stakes of this private lesson, Keith had found himself actually having  _ fun _ . He lets Lance chatter away about proper archery techniques and what him and Hunk are going to do later and, weirdly, how he always believed the difference between a brie and a camembert was only the size of the cheese wheel and not the recipe, but he was wrong. 

He keeps one eye on Sendak’s location, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he would have to race back to the manor, but he feels reluctant to go. It’s not a new feeling, by all means, but it’s unique in that he’s reluctant not because of what is waiting for him, but what he’s leaving behind.

“Hey,” Keith says, interrupting Lance’s rambling cheese tangent. He stops just before they reach his bike, and Lance turns to face him. His fancy clothes are grass stained and the silver circlet on his head is lopsided. “I just wanted to say, uh, thanks. For this. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.” 

Lance’s face breaks into a smile, and Keith feels his face get hot. His hands kind of flounder at his sides. “I don’t have anything to give you, in return,” he continues. “I mean, I guess all I can do is my best, so I can win tomorrow and your time won’t be wasted.”

The prince scoffs. “Don’t worry about that.” But he does look curious, resting one hand on his chin. “Though, maybe there is one thing you can do for me.”

Keith tilts his head. “What’s that?”

Lance looks at him for another moment, and then claps his hands together as though he’s made a decision. “Tell me one thing.”

“One what?”

Lance’s smile turns wide and sly. “One thing about you, it doesn’t have to be your name. I know you have your mysterious  _ reasons _ \--”

“They’re good reasons!”

“So, tell me something about yourself, and I’ll consider us even,” Lance finishes.

Keith squirms. “Like...what?”

“Anything!” Lance says.

“Tell me what you want,” Keith decides. “If it’s reasonable, I’ll answer.”

“Great!” Lance takes another moment to examine Keith, before visibly making a decision. “Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“What color are they?” Lance clarifies. “Are they a nice, rich brown? Are they blue, like mine? Hazel? Green? I’m not asking for much, Red.”

“Okay then,” Keith says. “My eyes. I guess they’re...dark.”

Lance gives him an incredulous look. “Dark?”

“Yeah.”

“Dark isn’t a color, Red.”

“Well, sorry I haven’t done any in-depth examination of my own eyes, Lance!”

Lance rolls his eyes. “I guess I’ll take it,” he says. “And, one more thing.” He looks nervous then, biting his lip and bouncing on his toes. He reaches into one pocket and pulls out a folded piece of fabric, the same color as his cape. He thrusts his hand forward, towards Keith.

“Um,” Keith says. “For me?”

“Who else?” Lance says. He pushes it into Keith’s chest, until Keith has no choice but to take it. “It’s...God, this is embarrassing.”

Keith unfolds the fabric. It’s powder blue, with the royal crest embroidered in one corner and Lance’s initials in the other. His nose wrinkles. “Ew, is this your handkerchief? Gross.” 

“It’s a token!” Lance blurts out. “You know? Like. Don’t make me say it--”

“Like princesses give out?” Keith says. Safe behind his mask, his mouth starts to turn up in a grin. “What, I have your  _ favor, _ dear prince?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Lance snaps. Even in the moonlight, Keith can see that his cheeks are darkening in a blush. “I was always planning on giving it to you. It’s like, a symbol. Like, no matter what the council wants I’m behind you. Show some kind of control, remember? This was before I found out you’re a dick, though.”

“What do I even do with it?”

“I don’t know!” Lance throws his hands up. “Display it! Or don’t! I don’t care.” He reaches down and picks up his previously discarded duffle bag, collapsing the bow and stuffing it in violently. Keith can’t quite stop smiling.

“Of course I will wear your token, your grace,” Keith says, voice teasing. Lance mutters something unintelligible and stands up straight, swinging the bag onto his back. 

“Whatever,” he says. “Token or not, you better win tomorrow, Red. I’m counting on you.”

Keith straightens, clutching the handkerchief in his fist. “I will,” he says seriously. “Thanks again, your highness.” 

The two of them stare at each other for another moment, and the serious air quickly dissolves into awkward tension. “Right,” Lance says. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “I should...yeah.”

He hops on his bike, and Lance starts walking off towards the palace. Keith watches his back for a long while, handkerchief in hand. Maybe a bit too long, as when he finally looks away from Lance’s retreating form, Sendak and Haxus are leaving the palace, and he has to hurry back.

He barely makes it, throwing himself on the kitchen floor moments before his uncle’s carriage reaches the manor. He’d stashed his armor and bike in the same bit of woods as before, making sure to cover the red paint in discarded branches and leaves. He couldn’t quite manage to part ways with the handkerchief, though, keeping it clutched in his fist long after Sendak and Haxus have gone to bed, pressed close to his chest. 

He dreams of someone reaching out and offering their hand. He takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: i try and navigate an archery tournament on next to no knowledge. might just plagiarize brave. who knows?
> 
> if you want to know what the actual difference between a brie and a camembert is, leave a comment
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://https://wizzardblizzard.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/usernicole) if you want. its mostly just memes
> 
> #TokenGays


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